The Final Solution
by Consulting Angel
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock returns to John after three years, thinking Jim Moriarty dead and his web taken care of. That may be, but is Moriarty really that easy to get rid of? T for some language and violence. Also (probably should've mentioned this sooner): major character death(s).
1. Not Dead

"SHERLOCK!"

John woke himself up with his scream. Three years and, though less frequently now, his mind still plagued him with visions of Sherlock's suicide.

He looked to the clock next to the bed. 4:37 in the morning. "Well," he sighed, "I was only going to get up in another three hours anyway."

The doctor showered and dressed, made his tea, and sat down to stare at his blog. Nothing had been posted in three years (despite his therapist's requests) - what was there to say?

A knock at the door grabbed his attention. He closed the computer, grabbed his cane, and limped down the stairs. John opened the door to see Greg Lestrade. They hadn't spoken since the funeral, so he sounded more than a little surprised when he greeted the man with a formal, "Detective Inspector?"

"John! Sorry to bother you – just wanted to drop this off on my way to the office," the DI explained, handing over a package. "This was with it," he added, pulling a white paper from his pocket. "Cleaners found it behind the copier."

"Oh. Um, thanks."

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "I've got to go, but don't hesitate to call me if you need anything. Really." He nodded a farewell at John and then got back into the cab waiting for him at the curb. John waited until the car had turned the corner before heading back upstairs.

He set the box on the coffee table and unfolded the paper. Heavy white paper, sharp creases folding it into quarters, flawless handwriting in black ink inside. "For Doctor John H. Watson," it read. It wasn't signed or anything, but something about the message was nagging at him as he stared at the page, but what? After a few minutes he still had no idea what it was about the writing, so he set the paper on the table and turned his attention to the box. Underneath the wrapping (plain brown paper, no label, clean folds) was a white shoebox. He set the lid aside and pulled back a few layers of royal blue tissue paper to reveal... a skull?

Yes, it was a skull. The very same skull, he realized, that had mysteriously vanished from the mantle the day after the funeral. And then he remembered why the handwriting had bothered him so much - he'd seen it all over the flat for years; he just hadn't recognized it at first.

It was Sherlock's handwriting.

Anger hit him first. What was this, someone's sick idea of a joke? Why on earth would anyone do this to him? He dropped the skull onto the couch behind him and pulled the tissue paper out of the box, hoping for something, anything - another note, a signature, some sort of clue to trace the box back to someone. But it was empty, and the interior of the box was just as white as the exterior. He was half-tempted to call Lestrade and ask who it had been. Anderson? The man always had seemed to hate him. John threw the skull across the room and into the kitchen and turned towards the window, waiting for the crash that never came.

"You could have just said you didn't like it."

John's eyes flew open. That voice... but how? He turned around and his eyes confirmed it. The great detective stood in the kitchen, skull in hand, looking just the same as ever. "No," the doctor started. "No. You're not real. You can't be real. I saw it – I was there. You're dead, Sherlock!" He took a deep breath. "I'm hallucinating. Oh, bet my therapist will be thrilled. Maybe I should've kept the blog going. Might've helped me keep my sanity."

"John, it's me. I'm real. I'm right here."

John started laughing. "So this is what three years does to a person. Nightmares. Hallucinations. What's next, an all-out mental break down? They'll be locking me up in a psych ward before I know it."

Sherlock crossed to the living room and set the skull back on the mantle with some force. "John, I'm right here. Look at me! Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you died, Sherlock! You called me on the phone and expected me to believe you when you said you were a fraud and then you jumped off the roof of St. Bart's and you died! Your body is rotting six feet under right now, has been for three years!"

"Dammit, look at me!" Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders. "I'm real, I swear. I faked my own death three years ago because Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't jump, and I couldn't let that happen. Now listen to me when I say that I'm real, I'm really here, and I'm sorry I ever left you, and I need you to forgive me." His voice softened considerably. "Please."

John searched the man's face. "But how can you be real?"

"Just tell me you believe that I'm really here."

A moment of silence filled the room. "I – of course I believe it," John finally said.

Sherlock straightened up and took two steps back. "Good," he said, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Good."

"Hang on," John started when Sherlock turned to leave the room. "You can't do that!"

"Do what?"

"You can't just show up like that and blurt out a one-sentence explanation for everything that's happened in the last three years."

The formerly dead detective sighed. "Then what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to start at the beginning and tell me exactly what could possibly have possessed you to fake your own death, you bastard!" The anger was back in his voice, winning out in the turmoil of feelings.

Sherlock's voice remained calm. "That day, on the roof - Moriarty was there. I wanted to talk to him about what he was doing; I thought I'd figured out how he was doing it."

"Right," John interrupted. "You'd rather die than be so incredibly wrong about something."

"If you would let me finish!" He paused and sighed. "Moriarty's web was more complex than I thought. The whole world was going to be convinced he was just Richard Brook and I'd hired him to play a role so I could impress them with my genius the minute the papers hit the streets. I couldn't have cared less what anyone thought of me for it, but I couldn't let him win like that. Then he told me the rest of his little plan, and - I have to admire him, he really thought it through…. He had assassins on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and you. The only thing that would call them off was the sight of me falling off that roof. I knew there was some sort of signal he could give to call them off, but he put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. That's when I called you."

John didn't say anything for a minute as he let it sink in. "You faked your own death."

"I feel like we've been through this before."

"How? And don't try to brush it off like it doesn't matter."

Sherlock took his coat off and hung it on the back of the door, followed by the scarf. "When I left you the night before, I went straight to St. Bart's. Molly had told me that if I ever needed anything, she was there. She wanted to help however she could. I went to her and I told her I was going to die. Then I added that I had no intention of actually dying. We went through the necessary paperwork – all the little legal matters I'd never bothered with – and it was decided that she'd be the one to sign off on my death certificate. She did everything that had to be done to convince the world I was dead. When I actually fell, though, it couldn't be said for sure who would be first on the scene, so I had to make sure that as far as anyone would be able to tell, I was dead. Remember the ball I was bouncing off the cabinets just before you left the hospital? Does a wonderful job of cutting off a pulse when tucked under an arm. And as far as actually surviving the fall, it was a lot of math and science and little things done beforehand. Satisfied?"

John nodded and just as Sherlock started to tell himself that John was taking the news much better than Molly had said he would, his face became very closely acquainted with John's fist. Sherlock didn't say anything. He just looked a bit shocked and reached a hand up to rub his jaw. John's punches had improved since he'd been gone.

"You've been alive this whole time? You called me and said all that, and then you just… you just go and pretend to die and then come back after three years like nothing happened?"

"I said sorry, okay? I had to make sure Moriarty was no longer a threat. Why can't you – ?"

"Stop it!" John shouted. "Just – stop trying to explain everything like it's all black and white." His phone beeped with a text and he glared down at the screen. "And tell your brother to stop with the charity. I don't need his help," he snapped before walking out of the room.


	2. Suicide at the Office

John looked up to find himself walking down the back streets and alleys of the city. He should've grabbed his coat before storming out - it wasn't exactly warm. He could see his breath in the air when he stopped against a wall for a moment. He had to face the facts sooner or later, didn't he?

"He's not dead," he said out loud. Not that anyone could hear, of course. "My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is not dead."

He could hardly believe it. Was it possible the past few hours had been nothing more than a dream? Seemed like just the sort of sick thing his mind might do to him. But no, it was definitely real. Sherlock was back.

Then John had to ask himself: Did he really want Sherlock to be alive? Of course it was awful that he'd "died" in the first place, but John had just been starting to move on. Half of him was thrilled, it seemed, and the other half was just angry. Why did he have to do this? Why now, why not a year ago, a month ago? And he had strolled in so calmly, as if it had been mere hours rather than years since the two had last seen each other. Could John really let him back into his life just like that?

The answer was yes. How could he not? Life had been so… so dull, so boring. Sherlock's adventures had brought an excitement into his life that rivalled that of the war. Because Mycroft had been right when John first met him - the doctor missed the war. So to have his "old life" back was the best news anyone could've given him at that point.

John instinctively reached for his cane before realizing that he hadn't brought it with him. It had only been an hour and things were already looking up. And for what felt like the first time in three years, John smiled. Sherlock's return was definitely a good thing - even if he brought with him his crazy experiments and the random body parts. That in mind, he walked back to the main road and caught a cab back to 221B.

Sherlock seemed different when his friend returned. Of course he was going to be different; he'd been gone three years. Even so, John could just tell that something was off. The man was on his back on the couch, violin on his chest, plucking out an new arrangement of Beethoven's Fifth. "John?" he started, without looking away from the spot on the ceiling that had held his attention for so long.

"Yeah?"

There was a long moment of silence in the room before Sherlock spoke again. "Do you think Lestrade will want to know I'm back?" But they both knew that wasn't what he was originally going to say.

"Yeah - yeah, he'll probably be thrilled," John answered as he started boiling some water. "It's a wonder they've managed to get anything done without you," he added, only half joking.

"Oh, I could never abandon them!" Sherlock sat up and casually tossed the violin to the side. "I can't tell you how many tips I called in…" He stood and went to the window, pulling the curtain back and staring out absentmindedly. Cabs all over, people everywhere – it was always so busy, and none of them could ever just stop and _think. _A police car pulled up outside the flat. "Have they been coming to you for advice often?"

John looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading. "Sorry?"

"Lestrade. Have you been helping him with cases?"

"No… Why do you ask?"

The doorbell rang. "Good. Molly told them." Sherlock started mumbling, thinking out loud, and then looked at John for a moment. "Well don't just stand there, let him in!"

"Um, yeah, of course," John managed to get out as he started down the stairs. He returned a moment later, the DI close behind. Sherlock had closed the curtain and was loading his gun when they entered the room.

"We had a pool going on how long it would be before you decided to pull some crap like this. Sherlock Holmes, the man who faked his own death. Seemed like something you'd do. I'm out fifty quid, thanks to you," Lestrade said.

"Not now. You've got something more important going on, wouldn't have driven out here otherwise. " Sherlock clicked the clip into the gun and pointed it at the wall, firing one shot at the center of the smiley face.

The other two men jumped. "Was that really necessary?" Lestrade asked.

"So where did you find him? White male, early twenties, had it all going for him, messy suicide, am I right?" He buttoned his coat, looped the scarf around his neck, and pulled his gloves on.

Lestrade didn't bother wondering how Sherlock knew what he was here about; he just nodded and answered the first question. "My office. Donovan found him when she went in early this morning."

John stood in the doorway, not entirely sure what was going on. "Hang on. A suicide, in an office, at Scotland Yard? And you only just found out about him not being dead?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yes to both, obviously. Now let's go, we're losing time!" He led the others out the door and told Lestrade they would be just behind him. He stopped the first cab that passed, gave the driver the destination, and had his mobile out before John had shut the door.

They rode in silence for several minutes, the only sounds coming from Sherlock's phone until John spoke.

"He didn't seem too surprised."

Sherlock slid his phone into his pocket and looked up. "Sorry?"

"Lestrade didn't seem too surprised to find you alive. And he came to the flat - it was like he knew you'd be there." He paused and looked at Sherlock. "Did someone tell him you were alive?"

Sherlock looked out the window of the cab. "Yes."

"When?" John asked, though he wasn't sure if he wanted to know.

"Oh, relax, it's not like I'm playing favorites. Besides, he's desperate, makes it easier for him to accept. Molly was the only one who knew up until last night, at which point I told her it was time for me to tell you I was alive and that she could start informing the rest of the world in order of importance – Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson…" the detective answered nonchalantly.

"Oh." John thought for a moment, then asked, "But why three years? And don't say you had to take care of Moriarty, because he's good, but you're better and you could've finished that in a month or two."

The man didn't respond. It wasn't until they arrived at the Yard and he had paid the cabbie that he even looked at John. "Because," he started, holding the door open, "I saw what it did to you and I didn't want to mess with that." The door swung shut behind them. "Emotions are fragile, John." But there was no time for John to ask what the hell Sherlock meant by that, because they were joining the small crowd around Lestrade's office.

"Michael James Saunders. Twenty-three. Student at the University of London," Lestrade was saying.

"Yes, thank you for that incredibly useful information," Sherlock interrupted, voice dripping with sarcasm. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves. "Where's the body?"

Lestrade moved to the side and let Sherlock and John into the office. Michael's body was in the chair, slumped over the desk. A .22 handgun was in his right hand hanging over the arm of the chair. Blood had pooled on the desk from the hole in the man's neck. This much, of course, was obvious to everyone in the room - but the consulting detective saw much more. Everyone just kept out of his way while he did what he did best - observe and deduce.

He stepped away from the desk after a minute or two, and took another look around the room before pulling the gloves off. "Not only was your information irrelevant, it was completely wrong," he started. "He's a law student from Manchester, visiting London for a day, possibly for an interview. Graduates in a month, gets married in two. Roman Catholic. Hasn't got many debts - unusual for a student but understandable given his family. Definitely not the type to commit suicide; whoever did this has my respect. They didn't miss much."

"Hang on," Anderson said, stepping between Sherlock and the door. "Respect? For a murderer?"

"They did well covering their tracks. Would've fooled you any day of the week."

"Oh, thanks," Anderson replied, rolling his eyes. "If you're done insulting us now, we've got a suicide to write up."

"Homicide," the dark-haired genius corrected. "You've got a _homicide_ to _investigate_."

"And what makes it a homicide?"

"Oh, it's not like I could expect you to understand."

"We're not all stupid, you know. Just because you can figure out when someone's graduating by their watch – "

"Haircut."

"Well, excuse me!"

"You're excused. It's not your fault you're stupid."

"Could you two try to get along?" Lestrade finally cut in. "Fact is, we've got a body in my office with no idea how or why. If Sherlock says it's a homicide, then I'm inclined to believe him. Someone managed to put a body in my office in the middle of the night without getting caught on tape, and that means we've got a security problem in the building. So let's get one thing straight: for the remainder of this case, you're all going to take Sherlock's word as law! Is that clear?"

Sherlock glared at Anderson until he moved to the side. The two continued staring each other down until Lestrade spoke again.

"So what are we doing here, Sherlock? Think it's anyone you know?"

"I've got a few names to check. In the meantime I want you to run every test in the book on that body - check the blood, see if it matches anyone at Manchester – especially in the H's. Horace, Harry, Henry… And find his fiancée. I'll have a few questions for her." He turned back and took one last look at the office. "Text me when you've found something." He took off out the door, leaving John to hurry to catch up.


	3. Wrong?

Sherlock picked up his gun and pointed it at the wall. His finger was on the trigger when John walked into the room. "No," was the simple objection. John left no room for argument as he grabbed the gun from the ever-so-bored detective. He removed the clip from the gun and put both on the mantle.

"Three hours, John. Three hours!" Sherlock's head fell onto the arm of the couch and he reached for his violin. "They should have something for me by now," he complained.

"Well, they don't. Looks like you'll just have to wait a bit longer," John replied, sitting down in his chair with a copy of The Hobbit. It was times like these he felt like he was talking to a child.

Sherlock frowned and started plucking the strings on the instrument. John struggled to read with the constant noise in the background and was beginning to wonder if the sound was slowly driving him mad when it hadn't stopped half an hour later. After another two hours he was seriously considering taking a knife and cutting the strings. A few more minutes after this thought entered his mind, Sherlock's phone beeped with a text. The man didn't seem to have heard it, though.

"Sherlock."

The plucking cycled back to a minor arpeggio.

"Sherlock!"

Chromatic scale.

John sighed, got up from the chair, and took the violin from an oblivious Sherlock. "Your phone."

Sherlock picked his phone up off the floor and glanced at it for half a second before jumping up and hurling the device across the room. It hit the wall with a loud crash and landed as a pile of broken glass and circuitry. He then resumed his original position and put a pillow over his face.

"What was that for?" John demanded, simply because this meant that the detective would be 'borrowing' his phone until he got around to buying a new one in a week or two.

"Tox results came back clean," was the muffled reply. "Nothing strong enough to even put him to sleep."

"Isn't this when you tell them to double-check for some obscure chemical that doesn't normally show up?"

"They ran every test they've got."

"What about something naturally found in the body?"

Sherlock laughed and threw the pillow onto the floor. "Don't insult me. That was the first thing I thought of."

"Well, everyone misses something once in a while, so – "

"I don't."

John threw his hands up in exasperation. "Fine! But if you ever decide to stop sulking, there's a murder that needs solving." He dropped the violin unceremoniously on the chair and made his way upstairs with his laptop. Maybe the blog wasn't such a bad idea after all.

* * *

Then again, maybe it was. After staring at the blank screen for half an hour, John still had no idea what to write. What could he say? "BTW, Sherlock's not dead." He had typed and deleted something at least a dozen times.

At some point during his staring and thinking, he realized he was a bit hungry. After checking the clock (three times, just to make sure), he understood why – it was past five o'clock, and he hadn't eaten since breakfast almost twelve hours ago. Needless to say, he needed to eat something.

Sherlock was still sulking when John walked past him to get to the kitchen – sprawled across the couch, staring at the ceiling with a vacant look on his face, no indication whatsoever that he had moved once since his outburst. The kitchen, however, said otherwise. John opened the fridge in search of jam and found instead a dismembered hand, a test tube rack with eight different samples of blood, a bottle of thirty-five-percent hydrochloric acid, and a vial of ninety-percent sulfuric acid. "Back at it already, I see," he muttered, closing the fridge and giving up the search for anything edible.

"I'm getting takeaway," he called out. "Do you want anything?" But Sherlock didn't even appear to be breathing from this distance. "No, of course not," John sighed. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes. Don't do anything dangerous or – oh, forget it."

John returned almost exactly fifteen minutes later with a bag of Chinese food, at which point Sherlock decided it was time to be productive. He was still putting his coat on when he ran nearly into John at the door. "Come on, let's go."

"What do you mean, 'let's go'?" John asked.

"Do you want me to find you a dictionary?" John didn't seem amused. "I want to get a closer look at the body."

"Can't you do that on your own?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I need a second opinion."

John looked at the bag in his hand. "But I only just – "

"Put it in the fridge."

"There's a hand in there."

"So?" Sherlock buttoned his coat. "Come on."

They stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock anxious to get going and John feeling more than a little irritated and hungry. "Fine," John sighed after a moment, dashing up to the kitchen to drop off the food. They caught a cab to St. Bart's, Sherlock paid the driver, and John ran after him into the building.

Molly was waiting for them in the mortuary. The body was on the slab and she was rereading a file. She jumped a bit, startled, when she looked up to see Sherlock and John on the other side of the table.

"Cause of death?" Sherlock asked.

She handed him the file she'd been reviewing. "Cough syrup and alcohol."

Sherlock ignored the file and set it next to the corpse. "No, no – he was shot. There was more than enough blood at the scene; how could it have been _that_?" he started to argue.

Molly pulled the sheet down past the chest to reveal the familiar stitching pattern of an autopsy. "I saw this and checked our records. He was brought in a month ago; I did the autopsy myself. His funeral was supposed to be two weeks ago, so I called the family to make sure. They said he was cremated and the ashes scattered in the woods where he liked to hunt."

"What about the blood?"

"Human, but not his. Didn't match any records, either."

Sherlock took a minute to reconsider what might have happened while John asked, "Do you know who was supposed to cremate him?"

Molly shook her head. "I'll look into it, though."

The detective snapped back to reality. "Let me know when you find something useful," he said before striding out of the room. John thanked Molly and grabbed the file before chasing after him. By the time he was outside, though, there was no sign of Sherlock. "Brilliant," he muttered. He looked up and down the street a few more times before giving up and getting a cab for himself.

In the meantime, Sherlock had found his way to his brother's office. Mycroft came back to the room after dinner to find Sherlock in his chair behind his desk.

"How's the curry tonight?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft hung his coat. "New recipe. I prefer the old one." He turned and stood in front of the desk. "How's the case going?"

Sherlock hesitated to respond, but when he did, it all came out in a rushed breath. "I couldn't tell he'd been dead for too long to have been killed in the office, or even that it wasn't the gunshot that killed him, or that – "

Mycroft cut him off midsentence. "Is complaining going to help?"

"I'm supposed to be – no, I _am_ – better than that!" he exclaimed.

His brother shrugged. "You had an off day. Perfectly understandable." Sherlock looked at him like he would kill him for suggesting that – Sherlock Holmes does not have 'an off day'! "You just went back to John," Mycroft continued. "You're worried about him."

Sherlock laughed it off. "Why would I be worried about him?"

"Because he's your friend – quite arguably your only friend – and you're not sure how he'll react to your return after thinking you were dead for three years."

"Forget it," Sherlock said, starting towards the door. "Coming here was a mistake."

"Talk to him, Sherlock. He needs to know," Mycroft managed to get out before the door slammed shut.

Sherlock spent the ride home mulling over everything his brother had said. Maybe he was right – he had always been better with people, after all – but there was still a reason John hadn't been told. The way Sherlock saw it, it was a part of his past that couldn't be helped, and he didn't want the sympathy that people would offer if they heard. Besides, it had been ages ago – it wasn't as if it was still affecting him or his work. The world was full of lies, and this was just another to add to the pile.

* * *

John was finally sitting down with his dinner when his phone rang from across the room. He stood with a huff and answered without bothering to check the caller ID. "This had better be important!"

"Don't worry, I won't keep you from your dinner any longer than necessary."

"Mycroft?"

He didn't confirm – didn't have to, really – but asked John, "Has Sherlock told you why he waited so long before telling you he wasn't dead?"

John shrugged. "Said he didn't know how it would affect me."

Mycroft laughed softly on the other end of the call. "So that's the story he's going with…"

"Sorry?"

"Ask him again. He knows what he needs to tell you." At the flat, the front door closed with a _click_. "Be careful, Doctor Watson. My brother isn't as heartless as he might seem," Mycroft finished. He hung up before John could ask what that meant.

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen a moment later and pulled the rack of blood samples from the fridge. "Who was that?" he asked while he prepared some sort of experiment in his lab.

"Telemarketer," John replied. Maybe he did want to know what Sherlock was supposed to tell him and maybe he didn't, but right now he just wanted to finish his dinner.

John's phone woke him up. He squinted at the screen until his eyes adjusted. Private number. He considered ignoring the call, but what if it was important? He yawned and answered with a groggy, "Hello?"

"John! Hi, it's Molly," she said, her voice far too peppy for the middle of the night. "I tried calling Sherlock but he didn't answer.

"Yeah… He sort of chucked his phone at the wall," John explained. He glanced at the clock for curiosity's sake before continuing. "And it's two in the morning!"

"Is it really? Doesn't feel like it's been that long."

"Molly, what are you doing still up at _two in the morning_?"

"Well, Sherlock said he wanted the case solved, so – "

"Hang on, you're still at St. Bart's?"

"Yeah. I found the crematorium, by the way. That's why I was calling. Private business just south of Cardiff."

"So the bodies were switched there?" John wondered when he finally remembered what case she was talking about.

"I'll stop by with the files of everyone connected in the morning, if you want."

"Molly."

"Or now, if that works for you. I can be there in - "

"Go to bed. Go home and get yourself a decent night's sleep. You can't help if you're a zombie, and I guarantee the case isn't going anywhere until the sun's up. I'll call if we need anything."

"Oh – okay, then."

"Goodnight."

"Right – er, bye."

John ended the call before she could bring up anything else and flopped back in bed. Tried to, anyway. His head cracked against the wall instead of hitting his pillow. His hand went up to the back of his head and he grimaced.

"You all right?" a voice asked. John jumped and nearly hit his head again before looking around and noticing, for the first time, his flatmate standing in the doorway.

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Sorry. Couldn't sleep."

"Couldn't? Or didn't deem it necessary?" John wondered, adjusting his pillow.

Sherlock shrugged. "Molly called?" he asked as hint of excitement crept into his voice.

"Yes," John started, pulling the covers up around himself, "but I'm not telling you anything until that clock says seven-thirty," he finished, pointing at the alarm clock next to his bed. "Goodnight. See you in five hours." He waited until Sherlock's footsteps were fading down the stairs before letting himself fall asleep again.


	4. Crematorium

A loud bang woke John up. He bolted up in bed and grabbed his gun from under his pillow, looking around somewhat frantically. Then he saw it: a hole in the floor just a step or two from his bed. And then he sighed. It was 7:30, but still…

"Come on, John! There's a case to solve, and if I'm correct, which we both know I am, Molly's found the crematorium," Sherlock shouted from downstairs.

John groaned and heaved himself out of bed. "You could've come in here yourself to wake me up, you know," he complained as he changed into jeans and his favorite jumper.

"I was timing a reaction for an experiment. Had I missed it, three hours' work would've been wasted."

"So you shot through the ceiling to my room? You could've killed me!"

Sherlock closed his notebook just as John appeared in the kitchen. "Don't be ridiculous," he replied. "It was at least three feet from your bed." He checked the color of a solution and gestured towards the counter. "I made tea."

John examined the mug before dumping it into the sink. "I've learned not to trust anything you give me."

"That was once, and it was for an experiment. Perfectly harmless."

"But the next one might not be."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "If you're not going to eat, there's a crematorium I need to check out."

John held his hands up in mock-surrender. "Whatever you need to solve the case." He took three steps away from the kitchen and paused. "If you already knew about the crematorium, why wait until now to look into it?"

"They don't open until nine. Figured I'd wait until office hours. Apparently people are much more willing to help an investigation if you don't wake them in the middle of the night to ask questions."

John nodded as if the explanation was perfectly rational and the behavior not at all out of the ordinary for the detective. "Are we going, then?" he asked, looking for his jacket and finding it under the coffee table. He wasn't even going to ask how it ended up there. They caught a cab and Sherlock gave the driver an address before turning his attention to his – well, John's – phone.

"Really? My phone?"

"Mine's broken," Sherlock answered without taking his eyes off the screen. He checked his email and a few websites and then tossed the phone back at John.

John eyed the phone somewhat suspiciously, wondering how long it'd been out of his possession. "How did you get the address and all, anyway? I thought Molly was going to email it to me."

"She did. You just need to change your passwords a bit more often to something a bit more secure," was the simple answer.

"I did! Last night, in fact. How did you even – ?"

Sherlock smirked. "Wasn't too difficult."

John wanted to object, or say something about how Sherlock was always using his computer and hacking the government's databases, all without asking, and that it really should stop – but he didn't. Instead, he sighed and stuck his phone back into his pocket. Sherlock was staring blankly out the window, thinking about who knows what, having returned to his not altogether unusual mute state. There was half an hour of silence before John decided it was as good a time as any to question Sherlock again.

"So," he started, "why did it take you three years to tell me you weren't dead?"

Sherlock straightened his back – barely noticeable except to someone who really knew him. "I already told you. I didn't know how you would react."

"Mycroft said that was a lie," John accused.

"Wouldn't be the first time he was wrong about me."

"Secrets don't make friends, Sherlock." John was really starting to wonder if this was what it was like to talk to a toddler.

"Who said I wanted any?" Sherlock snapped, turning to look at John, who had returned his attention to the window.

"Never mind, then."

"No, it's not – I didn't mean – " Sherlock stammered. He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. Then he sighed heavily and started over. "I know what Mycroft wants me to tell you, but I can't. Won't. It was in the past – what's done is done, and I'd rather move on to today than worry about it," he finished, the words rushing out.

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the ride. They each just watched the scenery change as the cab made its way to the crematorium. Sherlock put full focus on the case while John wondered what his friend could possibly be hiding and began to worry.

They walked into the building five minutes after nine. A nineteen-year-old boy in designer glasses, a blue pinstripe button down shirt, khaki trousers, and a grey fedora sat behind a desk, feet propped up in front of the computer and magazine in hand. He didn't look up when a gust of cold air flew through the opened door. He turned a page in the magazine when the bell on the doorframe jingled. His eyes scanned the page as the door slammed shut. Sherlock and John stood before him, waiting to see just how oblivious he was to the world around him. When they finally decided they'd had enough, the detective cleared his throat and nudged the boy's shoe. The kid jumped and dropped the magazine on the desk. "Oh – um, sorry… Can I help you?" he asked and raised a hand to adjust his hat.

"Yeah," John began. "We're – "

"With Scotland Yard." Sherlock flashed one of the DI's old badges at the boy. "What did you say your name was?"

"A-adam. Adam Walker." Adam took half a step back as he said this. "What did you say you wanted?"

Sherlock looked him over again. "Tell you what, Adam. You show us around, answering any and all questions, and I'll ignore the drugs under your desk and tell them you cooperated fully."

Adam opened his mouth to argue with the accusation, but thought better of it and stepped out from behind the desk. "Well, I'm sort of the receptionist," he started. "I take calls and keep records, that sort of thing." He led them through a door opposite the one they'd entered through to a perpendicular hallway with doors on both walls to the left and right. They turned left. Adam pointed out the bathroom, boiler room, supply closet (which Sherlock asked to see), and emergency exit. Then they made their way to the other end of the hallway, where Adam informed them that the door on the right was where the bodies were actually cremated, and the door on the left – "Well, I'm sure you'll figure it out for yourself." He swung the door open with a bit of a flourish and stepped to the side. The room was remarkably similar to the mortuary at St. Bart's – a cooler along the back wall with twelve doors (a bit excessive, John thought), two tables parallel to each other in the center of the room, bright fluorescent lights across the entire ceiling, and a storage cabinet on the left wall for instruments and chemicals. The only things on the right wall were a large window and a door to the back parking lot. Sherlock stepped through the door and pivoted, looking around, before taking a closer look at the two tables and the storage cabinet. Satisfied, he moved on to the storage coolers, pacing back and forth in front of them several times, consulting a clipboard hanging from the side. He returned to number seven and stood there for a bit, putting his hands together in front of his chin.

"What's he doing?" Adam whispered to John. "Praying?"

John almost laughed. "Oh, no. He does that when he's thinking."

"Oh." Then, "Does he do that for long?"

"Depends on what he's – " He broke off mid-sentence when Sherlock yanked open the door of number seven, and then the remaining eleven doors. Three, five, eight, nine, and twelve were occupied. The rest were completely empty, but of course Sherlock still managed to get something from them. He took at step back and scanned the floor for a long moment.

"Our 'victim'," he started, managing to indicate the air quotes without actually showing them, "was in number seven." Adam seemed about to interject, but John shushed him. "He was wheeled not to the room across the hall, but to the back door here, where a van was waiting for him." Sherlock wheeled around to face Adam. "How much did you get for it?"

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," the boy insisted.

"There's a smudge of shoe polish on the sole of your right shoe, and there are corresponding traces on the floor. Do tell if you've got a better explanation for that."

"I – fine. But you can't arrest me! It's not like I actually killed someone." Sherlock gave him a look to say, 'go on.' "Some guy walked in one day and slapped a hundred on the counter. Said he'd make it a thousand if I brought a body around to his car in the back."

"Stealing a body is still a major crime," John started, but the detective had another idea.

"Give me a name and I'll turn a blind eye."

Adam sighed. "Moriarty. That's what he told me to say if anyone asked."

Sherlock nodded and showed himself out without another word.

"Where do you reckon the others were? I mean, he can't be running the place himself," John asked as Sherlock raised his hand for a cab.

"He is. He keeps false pretenses of others working there for appearance's sake. Adam's brilliant, really. Finished med school last year, got a job here – most likely thanks to family connections – and the others left the business one by one until he was all on his own."

"You don't think he could be working for Moriarty, do y – hang on. I thought Moriarty died. Three years ago. Shot himself in the mouth on the roof before… Before you jumped." John found himself struggling to get the words out, even after all this time.

"Moriarty faked his own death just as I did, I'm sure. And no, Adam's not him. Moriarty was clever; Adam's smart."

"There's a difference?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the door to the cab that had pulled up. "Tell Lestrade it was Moriarty. Take a look at the file; a fresh viewpoint might do me good."

"Sure." John sat down in the cab, one hand on the door. "What are you doing to be doing?"

"_I _am going to find out where Moriarty went with the cadaver." He closed the door to the cab, spun on his heel, and walked away.

Sherlock knew nothing new could be found at the scene, so he went straight to a café on a corner a few roads over. Someone was bound to have a laptop he could borrow.

That someone happened to be a frustrated-looking student on an exchange program from New York City. "Problem?" he asked her.

She brushed her long brown hair back over her shoulder and glanced up at the speaker. "Um… no." He looked over her shoulder at the screen. "Just – the paperwork got all messed up, so the class I wanted to take is full, and that's the only reason I flew over, so…"

"What class?"

"Forensics lab at the University of London."

Sherlock read through the webpage on the screen in a matter of seconds. "Let me borrow your computer for a few minutes and I'll make sure you get in."

"Right," she laughed. "How do you plan on managing that?"

"Let's just say I know people who know people," he shrugged.

"If you can manage that, sure," she agreed, turning the laptop to the empty seat across from her. Sherlock sat down and, within minutes, had hacked the CCTV feeds for the area. He was running through the shots for the back lot at the crematorium when the girl spoke up. "So you're with Scotland Yard?"

"Um… Sort of…" He paused and looked up over the top of the laptop. "How did you know?"

She shrugged, said "Lucky guess," and took another sip of her cappuccino.

Sherlock handed the laptop back to her a minute later after finding what he needed and deleting all evidence of his research. "Thanks," he threw back over his shoulder as he walked away.

"So you'll get me into the class, right?"

"They'll call within the hour," he promised just before rounding the corner. A quick text to Mycroft and it was all set.

John, on the other hand, had been spending his time searching for some new clue in Moriarty's oh-so-thin file consisting of a few notes from the trial, a single photograph of the man, and a printout of John's write-up for the first case they'd done directly involving him.

"Anything new?" Lestrade asked, offering a coffee.

John gratefully took the mug and added two sugars. "Not unless the children he nearly killed are working for him." He was about ready to call it a day when his phone beeped.

_All set? -SH_

_You just wanted to get rid of me, didn't you? -JW_

_Didn't want to seem rude. St. Bart's in 20. -SH_


	5. Interrogation

"You're sure it's him?"

"Positive," Sherlock answered, not the slightest hint of doubt in his voice. He stood next to the detective inspector at the window to the interrogation room. A man slouched in the chair on the far side of the table. Late forties, black (going grey) hair, grey suit – a businessman. One of the officers had brought him in during his lunch break after Sherlock texted in the information – it had been a very productive twenty-four hours since they had toured the crematorium, and the detective had come to a conclusion easily enough. With, John would have added, the help of a certain invalided army doctor who knew more than a little about blood.

"Doesn't look like much of a killer, if you ask me," Lestrade remarked.

Sherlock smirked. "If I asked you, you wouldn't ever make an arrest." He took two steps to the door. "Give me five minutes." He reappeared a moment later on the other side of the glass, looked right at Lestrade, and dropped a blind over the window. Then the cameras and microphones were disconnected.

"Hey – no, you can't do that!" the DI called out. But, of course, both rooms were soundproof, and the only one to hear the objection was the man who voiced it.

On the other side of the wall, Sherlock sat down across from the murderer. "Nothing you say will leave this room."

"So?" the man retorted. "I've already confessed and resigned the remainder of my life to a charming little concrete cell, three barely edible meals a day, and one or two phone calls or visits from anyone still willing to talk to me." He folded his arms in front of his chest.

"Oh, the food's not that bad," Sherlock said. "And I know something the rest of them don't." He paused and leaned forward in his chair. "You're not really a murderer."

The man looked at Sherlock like he was an idiot. "What part of 'I confessed' didn't you understand?"

Sherlock seemed to ignore the comment and put his hands together in front of his face, the way he always did when he was trying to concentrate. "First of all, the man was dead long before they found him in the office. Secondly, someone made you do it," he finally said. The criminal neither confirmed nor denied the statement, but Sherlock's mind kept racing. "Your daughter," the detective finally concluded. "They took your daughter. Said they would give her back if you did this for them. But they never did, did they?"

There was a moment of silence, and then the man broke. He nodded, his eyes starting to water and his voice turning to one of anger. Immeasurable anger. "They took her a month ago. We were at the store and she went to use the bathroom. Said she'd find me in a few minutes - I was just a few steps away, paying the machine. But she never came back." He paused and sighed before continuing, and Sherlock waited as though he had all the time in the world. "Then a week ago I get a call. They put her on the phone for a minute, just a minute, and then they say that if I want her back I've got to do exactly what they say. I tell them I'll do anything to get her back. Then they hang up and I get an email a few minutes later, and it's got all the instructions. Get a body from the crematorium, put it in Detective Inspector Lestrade's office, and make it look like a suicide. So I do. Takes almost a week of planning, but I do it. The minute I get home my phone rings. It's Michelle, it's my daughter, and I'm just thrilled to hear her voice, you know? And I'm hoping they'll tell me where to find her or something, but they – they don't. They just… They let her talk for a minute, and I'm telling her I'll see her soon and I love her, and then… And then there was a loud bang, like a gunshot, and I never heard her again.". He was nearly crying by the time he finished the story.

Sherlock just nodded and took another look at the man. He never mentioned a wife, yet he wore a wedding ring. And that gold chain peeking out above his collar… "Your wife died a while ago. Shortly after Michelle was born, I'd say. That's her ring around your neck, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Michelle was so much like her mother. She was all I had left of her… But now it's just me."

Emotions were powerful, Sherlock knew. So he took advantage of them. "The man who did this to you – the man who killed your daughter – he deserves to be punished. He deserves to die, doesn't he?" Sherlock paused for a second, let the man think. "What was the man's name? Give me his name, and I will make sure that he sees the consequences of his actions – I will make sure he never does this to anyone else – but I need a name."

The man sighed deeply. He looked up at the detective and spoke the one name that he'd been too afraid to think since he'd lost his little girl. "Moriarty."

Sherlock rose and put one hand on the doorknob. "Thank you. I'm very sorry to hear what happened." Then he left and was back in the observation room, glad to at last be able to stop acting.

"Well?" Lestrade demanded, more than a little irked by Sherlock's trick.

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the chair it had been draped over and put it on. "Not him."

"What? But – you said you were sure! You're always sure!"

"Then I was wrong," Sherlock answered nonchalantly. "Keep looking. Let me know if you can come up with any suspects for yourself." He buttoned his coat and left, not wanting to waste any more time than necessary on anyone other than Moriarty.


	6. Irene's Case

"You're just letting him go?" John asked when his flatmate returned from the interrogation.

Sherlock hung his coat on the back of the door. "Moriarty was involved. I don't have time to waste with people like that if he's back."

John shrugged. "Suit yourself." Then he left Sherlock to his experiments – or whatever it was he was doing in the kitchen – and went upstairs, only to return a minute later.

"So she's not dead?"

"Sorry?"

"Irene. She's just texted you through my phone. She wants to have dinner and discuss a case… You're taking cases from her?"

"She gives tips. Much more interesting than anything Scotland Yard comes up with."

John nodded. He glanced down at a day-old paper and scanned the front page, but, finding nothing of interest, dropped it back onto the coffee table. "Right, then. 'Night." He turned around and headed for his bedroom. Sherlock waited until he was halfway up the stairs before replying to the text.

_Busy. Case?_

He sat down and drummed his fingers on the table until the next message came through.

_River Thames, near Big Ben. Headless man, tux, bottle of wine. Interested?_

And that was all it took. He was still putting his scarf on when he stepped into the first cab he saw. "Big Ben," he told the cabbie.

The small canoe was right where she'd said it would be, dragged onto the shore by the clock tower. It had only been moved an hour or two ago, judging by the drag marks leading from the water. Wooden canoe, no distinctive markings whatsoever. Not a trace of blood or a struggle, either – he was already dead when he went into the boat. Custom-made Italian tuxedo, designer, silk tie, custom leather shoes – not the victim's clothes, though; he was a teacher (primary school). Murderer dressed him up, then. Oh – and a Rolex. New model, just released a week ago. Someone's got money. Wealthy murderer trying to show off, apparently. Only problem remaining was cause of death – clearly not decapitation; his heart had stopped beating by the time his head was removed. Clean cut, straight edges, no extra rips or tears – something like a sword, then. Long blade, no serrations. Still not cause of death, though. Only other visible injury was a small puncture wound in the inside of his right elbow. Anomalous, so definitely not drugs. Right arm of a right handed man, though? Someone else was injecting the drug – or not. The hole reminded Sherlock of the ones left after giving blood. He was drained? Explained the paleness of the corpse, at least. Then there was the wine tucked under the man's left arm. Sealed bottle. 1961 Château Palmer. Not exactly cheap. Murderer knew their wine. Probably had a nice collection at home, too, especially if they were just giving that bottle to a dead man.

So: very affluent, very arrogant man with at least minimal medical knowledge and access to fine wines as well as a variety of blades.

All this was done in a matter of minutes. A quick text to Lestrade and Scotland Yard was preparing for a long night. Anderson was the first one to arrive, with the others trailing a few minutes behind.

"Well," Anderson started as he snapped on his gloves. "Looks like you're the leading suspect."

Sherlock pretended to look over the body again, even though he really had no need to – he just didn't want to face Anderson and have a proper conversation. "Alright, you've got me. I was bored, so I kidnapped a teacher, drained his blood, chopped off his head, dressed him up, left him in a canoe, and then called you to admire my handwork because I'm just that arrogant," he answered, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Was that a confession? I'm sure we could at least put you in a holding cell overnight for that."

"Sorry, haven't got the time for that. Unlike some people, I'm going to be solving a murder." He brushed past Anderson just as the rest of the crew made an appearance. "Do try not to contaminate the evidence," he called over his shoulder. Then, to the DI, "All yours. Text me when you've got lab results." Sherlock paused mid-stride. "On second thought, don't… Just let me run the tests myself after you move the body." And just like that, the consulting detective was gone, leaving Lestrade and his team to try to learn half as much from the scene as he had.

It was only a few miles back home, and the weather wasn't too miserable, so the detective opted to walk – that, and he had a call to make. He held the phone to his ear and waited for someone to pick up, which they did, and on the first ring.

"What's keeping you up?" After all, one could very nearly set their clocks by Mycroft's schedule, and it said he was fast asleep at two in the morning.

"Poland. You?"

"Moriarty. I think. How's your wine cellar looking?"

"Planning a romantic dinner, are we?"

Sherlock ignored his brother's comment and went on. "1961 Chateau Palmer – how easily could one get their hands on it?"

"Well, it's not the cheapest one out there, but for a few thousand pounds, easily enough."

Sherlock nodded and ran across a street, angering more than one driver in the process. "Sorry, sorry," he called back. "Next question: import and ownership of swords."

"Swords?"

"Old samurai swords, specifically."

"Oh, please tell me this is for a case and not some ridiculous experiment of yours."

"There was a body on the river."

Mycroft sighed and had to think for a moment before answering. "Legally, it would have to be in a museum or private collection, and those are all on file."

"Well, that simplifies things." Sherlock hung up without any sort of goodbye – a waste of time, he thought, especially when it was Mycroft – and went the rest of the way in silence, mind racing ahead in the case.

He found John back in the kitchen, mug in hand, when he reached the flat. "What are you up for?"

"I woke up and you weren't here. I got worried," John answered, looking down at his drink.

"Oh, don't start with that. Can't imagine worrying about me would do you any good."

"Last I checked, you had this nasty habit of running off into life-threatening situations without a second thought, so, yeah, I'm going to worry about you." He finished his drink and set the mug down. "Goodnight. Try to get some sleep tonight; the case will still be there in six hours."

Sherlock smirked. As if he could even think of sleep after that crime scene. "Goodnight, John." The doctor went up to bed, the detective sat down to think, and everything was back to normal at Baker Street.


	7. Mary Josephine McNaughton

Sherlock smiled to himself and closed the laptop. "Mary Josephine McNaughton."

"What?" John asked, just entering the room.

"While you've been busy blogging, or whatever it is you do now, I've been doing some research."

"Oh, imagine that," his friend muttered.

"Andrew McNaughton owns a vineyard that produces for the makers of the wine bottle at the crime scene. But that's hours away – why would he come all the way here just to show off a murder? Turns out he's got family here. A niece of his lives across the city. Her mother works at a university in the archeology department, and what was she recently studying? Swords. Add that to the fact that the girl is studying pre-med, and you've got yourself a suspect."

"Well, nice job with that…"

"But?"

"She made it a bit easier for us than that." John handed over a sheet of A4. "They found something weird on the x-rays. There were some strange markings on the sternum, and Molly couldn't find any medical explanations for them, so they sent me a scan of it. It's braille. Translates to "Mary McNaughton". That was actually what I came down here to tell you." Sherlock gave John this look of disbelief. "She cut his sternum out of his chest, pounded her name into it with an awl, in braille, and put it back in."

The detective's face changed to a more impressed one. "That is… That's brilliant!"

"What, me deciphering the dots or her putting them there in the first place?" John asked, though he thought already knew the answer.

Sherlock just stood up and clapped his hands together. "Oh, this is going to be a good one!"

"Sherlock," John started, but the man wouldn't let him go on.

"Get your coat. She's in a flat just across London." John really didn't have much of a choice; Sherlock was already running to the door.

They reached the address in record time – John strongly suspected Sherlock of paying the cabbie extra to speed – and Sherlock paused outside the door. He glanced around the front of the building before nodding for John to knock. A girl opened the door a moment later. "Yeah?"

John introduced them. "John Watson. This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

"You're the girl from the café," Sherlock blurted out.

She smirked. "Yeah, I suppose I have been to a few cafés in my life. Come on in," she finished, stepping to the side. The two entered and followed her to the living room, where music was playing in the background – a vinyl record, actually.

"The Thieving Magpie?" Sherlock asked, referring to the record player.

"It's Saturday," she answered. "Saturday is classical." She flipped her hair back, walked across the room, and dropped onto the leather loveseat, feet curled up next to her. She didn't say anything, just reached for a bottle of nail polish from the coffee table and started painting her nails. Sherlock and John stood there, somewhat awkwardly, until she rolled her eyes. "Did you want something, or were you just looking for a lesson on manicures?"

"We're looking into a murder. You're our lead suspect. Only suspect, actually," Sherlock explained. "Mary, isn't it?"

She capped the bottle of nail varnish and set it back on the table. "Mary Josephine McNaughton, at your service. Ask away, boys." Mary twisted herself around on the loveseat and propped her feet up on the arm, holding her hands out so her nails could dry. "Oh, have a seat, if you'd like. And the kettle's on, if you want anything."

Neither of them sat. "You're being rather casual about this," John remarked. "I mean, you have just been accused of murder."

"Are you trying to say that makes me look more guilty or less guilty?"

"Well…"

"Exactly. The sooner you ask your questions and get what you came for, the sooner I can get back to my life. Now hurry up, Doctor Who's on in an hour."

Sherlock abruptly sat down on the sofa across from the loveseat. "Medical student. Uncle owns a vineyard. I'm sure you've already connected it to the murder in this morning's paper."

"Oh, that… Weird coincidence, isn't it?"

The detective looked her over for a long minute, trying to find something that would connect her directly to the case – but couldn't. There were no stains on her purple tank top, no notes in the pocket of her shorts – the only thing he could gather from her clothing was that she didn't go out much and kept a warm house. Her hands and feet were manicured, but she could've had that done in the two days since the man's death. Her make-up didn't give any indication of her being a student of any kind, for any student (especially one studying medicine) would've been pulling all-nighters at this time of year. Wait – there was one thing, very faint, but…

"When did you give blood?"

"Oh, about a month ago."

"And this was at a hospital?"

"Come to think of it, it wasn't. You should know I'm running a black market blood bank in my basement. Not a bad source of income, actually."

John glared at her. "Sarcasm isn't going to move this along any faster, and that was enough for us to get a warrant."

"Help yourself, if you'd like. Take a left out that door, second door on the right, stairway going down."

"John, please, shut up." Sherlock gave up trying to find anything useful through his usual means and started walking around the room. "I would like to see your room, though." She signed the man's chest, after all. She just might be arrogant enough…

Mary checked her nails, making sure they were dry. "This way." She stood and led them through the house, up a flight of stairs, and into her bedroom. "Voila," she said, twirling off to the side as she opened the door.

Sherlock's eyes took in the whole of the room, from the double bed to the desk to the bookcase spanning the entire back wall. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he trailed his fingers across the row of books at eye level until he found what he was looking for. He pushed one of the books in – Great Expectations – and that section of shelving swung out, revealing a safe. "A safe behind the books – I must say, I expected more from you. The combination?"

"Please. I'm not doing all your work for you." She flopped onto the bed and crossed her legs. "Use your brain, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock closed his eyes and went to his mind palace for a moment while John vocalized every idea that came to mind. "Maybe it's in the books? 'Great Expectations'? Or the author. Or maybe it's just her name. Or…"

"Oh!" Sherlock started, opening his eyes. "You really are the most arrogant person I've ever met."

"More than you?" she asked.

He just smirked and, without making any attempt to enter a code, opened the safe. Not even a yard on a side, there was only room for one thing in the safe: a human head. "John, say hello to our victim." Drained of all blood and kept in the climate-controlled safe for the past two days or so, it looked eerily life-like. The hair was still styled and the man's glasses rested over closed eyes. Sherlock pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and carefully put the head inside. "Good luck talking your way out of this one."

"A hundred pounds says I'm not going to jail."

"Oh, I couldn't possibly take your money like that. But sure, why not? I think we can show ourselves out. See you in court." He led a very shocked John out of the house and into the cab, still waiting for them on the road.

"I – sorry, what just happened?"

"Miss McNaughton killed the teacher, drained his blood with some supplies she stole from the hospital a month ago, beheaded him with a sword she borrowed from her mother's research – it was displayed on the wall just outside the living room, I'm surprised you missed it – dumped the body on the river, and put the head in her safe."

"But – why? There was no motive there. The police talked to the man's family – he didn't owe anyone anything, and everyone loved him."

"Because she could." Sherlock texted Lestrade with his new phone – the one he'd just gotten from Mycroft to replace the one he broke – and put it back in his pocket. "Scotland Yard will arrest her, she'll be put on trial and sentenced to life in prison, and there will be one less criminal mastermind walking the streets of London." He looked down at the head on the seat next to him as if he'd forgotten about it. "Oh – driver, Scotland Yard."

"Because god knows you wouldn't want them to find that in our fridge," John muttered. "There's already a half-dissected hand in there; who's going to notice the head of a murder victim?"

Sherlock looked out the window and half-smiled to himself. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed John and his sarcastic comments during the three years he was "dead" until now. They reached Scotland Yard after a lengthy drive and Sherlock sent the cab off this time. "Run this in to Lestrade. There's a new restaurant just around the corner, and you look like you need to eat something."

"We. I haven't seen you eat anything in days."

"Of course. _We_ need to eat something. Run that in, I'll call in reservations."


	8. The Trial

Sherlock and John found themselves standing in a courtroom a few weeks later. The trial hadn't lasted three hours. The two of them had testified as prosecutors, and she'd been her own defense. It was just like Jim Moriarty's trial a few years earlier, except she had said one thing on her behalf: "The pleasure's been all mine, Mr. Holmes." The jury disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a unanimous verdict: not guilty. The room slowly emptied until even the judge had left and the detective and doctor found themselves alone. Well, almost all alone. Mary Josephine McNaughton walked out from a room in the back a moment later.

"I think I'll take those hundred pounds now, if you don't mind." She held out one hand expectantly and looked at them with innocent eyes.

Sherlock pulled his wallet from his suit and counted out five twenty-pound notes. "Just one question," he said, holding the money to his chest. Mary raised an eyebrow. "How did you get away with it?"

The girl smirked. "You, of all people, should know, Mr. Holmes. A magician never reveals her secrets." She reached forward and took the hundred pounds from his hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm on a tight schedule."

"Oh, you schedule murders in advance now? Send a calling card ahead?"

She laughed and ignored the question. "Promise me you won't go looking for me, boys," she called back as she made her way to the back of the room.

"Why shouldn't we?"

She reached the door and spun around to give them one last look. "Let's just say I won't be there." She threw a business card over her shoulder and let the door wing shut behind her.

John picked up the card and turned it over. One side of the heavy black cardstock was completely blank, and the other had just one letter embossed into it: a silver gothic 'M'. "What do you make of this?" he asked, handing it over to Sherlock.

The detective studied it for a moment before tucking it into a pocket. "No idea."

"Okay… What about – what was it she said? 'I won't be there'?"

"No idea."

"Well, do you have any idea what she's going to do next?"

"Not at all." He put his hands in his pockets and strode out of the room, John following two steps behind.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was tidying up the kitchen when they got back to their flat. "Sorry about the trial," she started. "Can't imagine how she got off like that."

Sherlock smiled. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure we'll get her next time."

"You really think there'll be a 'next time'?" John asked, sitting down to type up the trial for his blog.

"You saw her. Did she really look like the type to stop after being caught once?"

John shrugged and resumed his (rather annoyingly slow) typing. The detective went to the couch and dropped onto it to do what he always did after a case: absolutely nothing. And anyone who had seen him working for any length of time could have told you that he probably wouldn't move until someone came to him with another case. John wasn't about to have that today, though. Mrs. Hudson had returned to her own kitchen to make dinner – some sort of beef stew, it smelled like – and made a brief reappearance to offer the others some.

"So," the doctor started after she left again. "When's the last time you ate?"

Sherlock took his time responding, possibly because he couldn't quite remember. "Tuesday," he finally said, barely moving a muscle.

"A week? Sherlock, it's been a whole _week_ since you last ate?" John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked a bit surprised. "Has it really?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." He closed his eyes again. "Well, I was working cases all week."

John rolled his eyes and sighed. He typed one more sentence on the computer before speaking up again. "What about that restaurant we went to after you got the head from her safe?"

"Mycroft texted me on the way over – something about a celebrity's dead dog. I think it was just his way of checking on me, though. It was one of the easiest cases I've ever seen. You must've been more interested in your dinner than I thought not to notice that I wasn't eating."

John sighed heavily. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called downstairs.

She was at the top of the steps a minute later. "Something wrong?"

"I think he'll have some of that stew when it's done."

"Just a minute, dear, it's almost finished." She disappeared for few minutes, then returned just long enough to drop off two steaming hot bowls of stew and a few slices of French bread.

John set a bowl on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. "Eat." Sherlock sat up, examined the stew, and then started dipping the bread in it. He finished the whole thing in less than ten minutes as John stared, a bit shocked that the nearly anorexic detective could eat like that.

Sherlock looked up to see that John hadn't taken a bite of his. "Were you going to finish that?" he asked somewhat hopefully.

John shook his head and handed Sherlock his bowl. "Since when do you, well, _eat_?"

"What do you mean?"

"You went a whole week without eating anything – "

Sherlock held up a hand. "I had a few cups of coffee."

" – and now this?"

"It's not that I'm not hungry," Sherlock explained between bites. "I just sort of forget about it when I'm busy thinking."

"Right…" John stood up and went to get himself something to eat. Meanwhile, Sherlock lay back down on the sofa and sighed. He bolted up again just as John returned to his chair with some toast.

"I'll be in my room." The detective stood up and went to his room, closed the door, and changed into a pair of pyjamas before getting into bed.

John finished his toast with jam. Then he turned on the news to see nothing but the details of the trial, and promptly turned it back off. He wandered around the flat for several hours and rearranged Sherlock's messes. He was putting some books back on the shelf when he finally started yawning and decided to turn in for the night.

He had just finished washing his face when he saw the same business card that Mary had dropped in the courtroom tucked into the mirror. Sherlock must have left it there, he told himself, though he didn't know when that could've happened. So he left it there.

It was probably a good thing he didn't think anything of it, because if he had, he would have checked Sherlock's suit for the original card, and he would've seen that it was still there. Then he would have wondered where the second card had come from. He would have, sooner or later, come to the conclusion that someone else had put the card there. The only reasonable assumption from there would be that Mary had been in the flat. The idea that she had been in their flat, and left the card in their bathroom as a sort of souvenir, was quite a terrifying one. So, yes, it was a very good thing John didn't think anything of the card. Because then he would have started to worry about who this Mary girl was, and he would have begun to wonder just what she was capable of.

But he hadn't thought anything of the card, so none of that was a problem, and his mind was clear as he finished up the blog entry about the trial. He didn't have a care in the world when he finally went to bed that night.

And that was what she was counting on.

* * *

Across the city, under a street light on an empty corner, a girl paced up and down the sidewalk. A phone was pressed to her ear. She had an agitated look on her face as she listened for several minutes before saying anything in return.

"Well, I haven't got him anymore, so it looks like _someone's_ going to have to start picking up the slack! You've got one job here. Get it done, and do it right. No mistakes." She slammed the phone shut and finally stopped pacing. The back of the prepaid phone slid off, and she removed the battery and SIM card. All three went into different dumpsters in different alleyways off that road. The single streetlight flickered out, and the girl vanished into the shadows.


	9. Bombing

Lestrade sat in his office, feet on the desk and a book in his hands. It had been a slow week – just a murder on a farm outside the city, not even worth Sherlock's consideration. Open and shut, if you could call it that. The son turned himself in the day after they found the body. So when Sherlock marched into the office that morning, he had the inspector's full attention.

"He's back."

Lestrade sat up in his chair. "What?"

"Well, he's got a copycat."

"Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Moriarty."

He tossed the book onto the desk. "I thought you said you took care of him," Lestrade said in a slightly accusatory tone.

"Yes. _Him_." Sherlock flipped through his phone briefly before sliding it across the desk.

Lestrade picked up the phone and studied the portrait for a minute before sending it back. "Who's that?"

"The most dangerous girl you'll ever meet." Sherlock took one more glance at the photo and then put the phone back in his jacket.

"Sherlock, she's eighteen!"

The consulting detective shrugged. "Seventeen, by my count."

"Sorry, you're trying to tell me that – " Lestrade broke off mid-sentence when John walked in with a tray of coffees. The drinks were handed out, and Lestrade started again. "Do you believe this guy? Trying to tell me some teenage girl is a mastermind criminal."

"She's certainly arrogant enough. And you saw the trial," John argued.

Sherlock leaned forward and put his hands on the desk. "She's got money, she's clever, and she's bored. Your biggest concern right now, Inspector, should be what her next move is going to be."

Lestrade leaned back and sighed. "What do you want me to do about it? I can't tell everyone to drop everything and watch this girl because our two favourite consultants have a hunch."

Sherlock stood up and looked something between offended and frustrated. "It's not – "

"It's a hunch, and until I've got physical evidence, I can't do anything." He leaned back in the chair and started sipping the coffee. Sherlock wouldn't accept it. He paced the office for a solid five minutes, during which no one said a word, until Lestrade couldn't take it any longer.

"Sherlock, you're going to wear through the floor."

Sherlock stopped rather abruptly and threw his hands up. "But she's _clever_! Can't you see that? She's clever, and you're not going to get any proof from her at all unless she starts planning something else!"

Donovan came bursting through the door and almost hit Sherlock with it. "Sorry, freak," she muttered. "Sir, there's been a bombing."

"What?" all three asked at once.

"Art gallery. Curator let himself into his office and something exploded in the back of the building. Bomb squad's on site."

"Brilliant," Lestrade grumbled. "Who died?"

"No fatalities, no injuries."

"Then what are you telling me for?"

Donovan shrugged. "Someone asked for you."

The inspector sighed and rearranged the piles on the desk. He looked at John and Sherlock, the latter looking quite hopeful. "Come if you want, then."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Sherlock said with a smile.

At the museum, a security guard led them through to the only affected room. The formerly white walls were scorched black and dotted with shrapnel from the explosion. Charred remnants of posters clung to the walls. The skylights in the ceiling were shattered. Officers were circulating the room, taking pictures and looking for some evidence that might lead to the person responsible for the damage.

"We were supposed to start getting some new pieces later today for an exhibit. Guess that's off now, though," the guard explained.

Sherlock stopped the officer approaching them before they could give any details of the bombing, and posed a question to the guard as if it was a matter of life and death. "Was there anything else in this room? Anything at all?"

"Umm… Not really. Well, there were the posters, and then some glass cases standing around, and a platform just over there for a statue. But nothing of any value."

The detective nodded and left the others to their discussion of the incident. He made his way across the floor, ignorant of all the bits of glass and metal under his feet, and stared at the back wall before making a lap around the room.

"Cameras," he finally said, raising a hand to point at the single camera in the corner of the room. "Easily could've been destroyed, but weren't. Why not? Did anyone bother to check them?" He had the attention of the majority of the room now. "No?"

"Well, we sort of assumed they were - " The guard was cut off by the detective.

"Never assume anything. Makes you look like even more of an idiot. Now, where did you say the monitors were?" He pivoted and started in the direction of the camera room. He was already clicking through the screens when the others joined him.

He paused on one in particular after a moment and hit "play". No sound, but the picture was decent enough quality. It was the girl Sherlock had come to know as Moriarty, all right. The night watch security guard walked up behind her as she was placing the bomb and she flipped a flashlight in her hand before jamming it into his gut. He doubled over and she finished him off with one more blow to the head. Not dead, just knocked unconscious. She walked to the back wall, pulled a huge poster off the wall, and folded it. She tucked it into her bag and retrieved a can of blood-red paint out of her backpack. "I O U," she painted on the wall in huge letters. The last thing she did before leaving was to very deliberately turn towards the camera, smile, blow a kiss at the lens, and wave. Then she sauntered out of the room and the screen went blank.

"Okay," Lestrade started. "Maybe she is Moriarty."

"Maybe?" Sherlock scoffed. "Arrogant, clever, smart, self-righteous, over-confident, bored, bordering on sociopathic - she's Moriarty."

"Remind you of anyone we know?" John asked with a smirk.

"No," Sherlock answered without hesitation. He saw what his friend was implying, though. "I'm not that arrogant." This was met by raised eyebrows and skeptical expressions all around. "There's a difference between arrogance and always being right." That got a few laughs from the room. "Point is," Sherlock went on, "she's showing off. Maybe a bit too much."

"So she made a mistake?" John asked.

"No, she's too good for that. I'd say she's getting ready for a change."

"Change? Like, she's going to stop being a criminal mastermind?" Lestrade chimed in.

"Not at all."

"Then what?"

"Looks like we'll just have to wait and see. Give it a day, maybe two. I'll see if I can get anything out of her. John?" he finished, finally pausing to breathe. "Cab's outside."

John nodded and followed the detective out. "When did you have time to call a cab?"

Sherlock held up his phone. "I didn't. It seems Mycroft wants to meet."

"That explains the black limo waiting for us," the doctor said, nodding at a car on the side of the road. Someone opened the door for them and they slid into the bench seat. "Where are - " John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Don't bother. It's not as if he'd tell us anything useful." So they sat in silence, looking around outside and waiting for a sign of what was to come.

The car eventually stopped in front of the gentlemen's club Mycroft frequented. But he wasn't in his usual room this time. No, it was empty and Sherlock was able to inform John that his brother would be out for several hours yet.

"Then why are we here?"

"No idea." Sherlock took another look around the office and something caught his eye: a yellow Post-It on the side of the desk. "You're not leaving until you tell him." That was the message. Sherlock clenched his fist, crumpling the paper. He had his phone up to his ear a second later.

"You can't do this," he demanded when his brother picked up the phone. "You can't make me tell him - there's no reason to tell him. It's not important. Besides, I'm on a case! You can't pull me off a case just for this!"

"I've already said everything I need to," Mycroft responded, calm as ever. "He needs to know."

Sherlock ended the call and started pacing the room.

"Something wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head and paced faster.

"Okay, something's clearly wrong, because I have never known the great Sherlock Holmes to do pacing what he can do sitting down. What is it?"

Finally, he threw his hands up and spun to face John. "Mycroft wants me to tell you why it was three years before I told you I was alive."

John looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Well? What are you supposed to tell me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. "My father was an abusive alcoholic." He looked up at the ceiling and raised his voice a bit. "There. Happy now?"

"Hang on - could you repeat that?" John asked, not sure if he'd heard correctly.

"Father was never happy with anyone or anything in life, so he'd drink. That much alcohol in his system, anything could set him off. It wasn't much of a problem until one summer when I was eight and Mycroft was fifteen. He was camping with some friends and Mummy was on a shopping trip in France. You can probably guess what happened, and, in the end, Mycroft came home a day early, found me, and took me to the hospital. I was there for a week. When we returned home, he was still drunk, and he threatened Mycroft, so I shot him. We burned the body in a shed in the back and wrote it off as an accident.

"What Mycroft wanted me to tell you is that, apparently, if one was to ask a psychologist why I'm so... detached and have a hard time with relationships and trust and all, they'd say it's because of that."

The door opened a second later. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he practically leapt out of the chair. "Finally!"

John's eyes were fixed on the empty chair for another minute or two. He couldn't help but wonder how it was that Sherlock could tell someone about going through a childhood like that with the same lack of empathy he managed to show in every other area of his life? But Sherlock was waiting impatiently at the door, and they had a case to get back to, and maybe he'd ask Sherlock about it later.

"She's at her flat. Five minute ride from here," the detective said as John finally left the room.

"You don't really think we'll be able to catch her on anything, do you?" the doctor asked as they slid into a cab.

"Not a chance."

"Then why are we going?"

"Why would she blow up an empty room in a well-known gallery just hours before a new exhibit is set to arrive? Answer: she's showing off. Next question. Why's she showing off? My guess is she's bored," Sherlock explained.

"Like you."

"What? No. Nothing like me. I don't bomb public buildings when I get bored."

"No, you just shoot a round or two into the wall," John replied sarcastically before going serious again. "So you want to know why she's bored."

"Yes." They rounded the corner and the girl's house came into view. Sherlock walked up the steps and rapped on the door, but not before noticing that she'd changed her name again. Jenna Lawrence, going by the mail. The door opened a moment later.

"Mr. Holmes. And look, you've brought the doctor along," she greeted them. "Wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Sorry. Checked the security tapes the moment I noticed the cameras were still intact. Nice touch, that - Jenna, was it?"

She nodded. "From the Arabic for heaven. I thought it suited me."

"Mind if we come in?" John asked, wondering how long they could stand there and chat like that.

Jenna stepped to the side. "Please do." She locked the door shut behind them and led them into her living room for the second time, this time with the large picture window in the back giving a beautiful view of the Thames in the spring. "Tea? Coffee?"

"No, thanks," John answered just as Sherlock said, "Coffee, black, two sugars." Jenna went down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a mug for the detective.

Sherlock didn't even have to ask his first question before she explained her actions. "What can I say? There are only so many ways someone who appreciates the finer things in life can show off to the public," she said, the Irish accent she'd recently picked up growing more obvious. "Did you get my message?"

Sherlock sighed. "I owe you. Yes, very clever. Are you going to turn yourself in or will we actually have to show the tape to a jury?"

She laughed and took a seat on the sofa next to John. "Oh, I think you're going to find that very difficult to do in another, oh, hour or two?"

"What, you set it to erase or something?" John asked, turning to face her.

She wiggled her fingers. "Sorry. I have been told I'm very good with computers. And don't try to save it on a flash drive or anything - it'll just wipe the whole thing," she said before Sherlock could even pull his phone out to text Lestrade.

The detective started drinking his coffee and thought about his next words for a long moment. "You're bored, aren't you?" he finally asked.

"You could say that."

"Why?"

"Why am I bored? I'm bored because the world is full of stupid people. I'm bored because everyone's favourite consulting detective hasn't been much of a threat to me. And, most importantly, I'm bored because I've a very specific skill set and there's nothing else for me to do with it."

"I'm sure you'd be very useful to some computer programming company or security firm."

She shrugged. "Dull."

"Okay, so you're bored," Sherlock accepted, holding his hands up. "So why all this showing off to the public?"

"Well, that's the frailty of genius, isn't it? Needs an audience. I'm a fan of the news, and what press wouldn't want to put this face on their front page? Well, maybe not this face, exactly, but let's be honest - I've been leaving my signature all over the place, haven't I?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. "One last question, then: what's your next move?"

Jenna smiled. "Now, now, Mr. Holmes. Let's not make this any easier than it already is." She rose from the couch and took the empty mug from him. "I think you can find your way out. Lock the door behind you, would you?" She carried the mug into the kitchen, leaving the other two alone.

"Fat lot of good that did," John sighed once they were back outside.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Sherlock replied, raising a hand for a cab back to their own flat. John gave him a questioning look, and rolled his eyes. "We know for a fact she's bored, meaning she's not going to stop what she's doing anytime soon. We'll have another change to catch her."

"So, what - we just keep waiting for her to do something we can catch her for?" John waited a bit for Sherlock to answer, but he didn't. "Sherlock, if she just keeps going like this, she'll destroy the city."

Sherlock waved him off. "She won't. Not her style. And I really don't see anything else we can do until she does something else."

"So we wait."

"Yes." Sherlock took his phone out of his jacket. "Don't worry, I doubt we'll have to wait too long." He gave the driver their home address and spent the rest of the ride on his phone.


	10. Moriarty

She knew something was wrong the moment she opened her eyes. The rich aroma of coffee wafted through the flat. _Coffee,_ she thought. _I don't even drink coffee._ Only one person would dare make themselves so at home in her flat, so left the gun on the side table and the knife in the case. She took her time making the bed, then wrapped a dark blue silk robe around her shorts and tank top and knotted the belt. She had one last look in the mirror, adjusted her hair, and finally went out to meet her visitor.

"Mr. Holmes," she started from the hallway, this time with a light Scottish accent. "You should have called – I would have made breakfast."

Sherlock turned from the window overlooking the Thames, and took another sip of the steaming coffee in a mug. "The first time we met, you were an American student. Then Mary, a Londoner with plenty of family in Europe. Jenna was an orphan and an Irish bomber. And now you're Scottish and you call yourself Amy."

She smiled with her back to him and reached into the fridge for the eggs. "I would expect you to see the reference in there, but you never were much a fan of pop culture, were you?" She didn't have to turn and look to know that he was racking his brain for the answer. "Don't trouble yourself over it; it's Doctor Who." She cracked two eggs into a bowl, added some milk, and started beating them. "I have a feeling you were trying to get at something else, though." The eggs sizzled as she poured them into a hot skillet on the stove.

"What am I supposed to call you?" The detective had made his way to the kitchen and was standing against the counter.

She didn't answer him at all until she'd scooped the scrambled eggs onto a plate and was poking at them with a fork. "Oh, I think we both know the answer to that." She took a bite of breakfast and nodded to herself in approval. "Sorry, did you want some?" she asked, holding the plate out to him.

He ignored her and closed his eyes, thinking. "Stupid," he finally muttered under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

"Moriarty." He sighed and opened his eyes. "You're his newest puppet."

She bit her lip to suppress a laugh. "Now, I could say yes," she answered in between bites, "but then you'd set the police on me, and I'm sure you'll understand how much of a nuisance that would be for both of us. So I could say no, but I think we're both past the point of petty lies. So I'll just say, no comment."

Sherlock set his half-full mug on the counter. "What could possibly be going on that he's using teenage girls? What, he's killed off everyone else? Or are they just refusing to work for him?" The questions went on and on in his head, and the flat was silent for a few minutes except for the sound of a fork scraping on a plate. It stopped, and then the girl put her plate in the sink. She did the same with Sherlock's cooling coffee.

"Dear Mr. Holmes," she said, shaking her head. "Won't you ever give up?" Before he could answer, she went on. "Go on back to John. Wait for someone to come to your door with some little problem they want you to solve, because really, Mr. Holmes, it's a matter of life and death and you just _have_ to find our daughter for us." Her voice went up half an octave as she imitated the would-be client. "But, above all, forget me. Stop trying to stop me – stop _thinking _you can stop me. Because – let's face it – you can't. If you could, you would have by now. Moriarty is too good for you, but I'm sure there are plenty of other criminals in England just waiting for you to try and stop them." She took him by the arm and started leading him back to the front door. It was already open before he turned to her and responded.

"And I think we both know why I can't do that. So you tell him this for me, _Amy_. You tell your boss that as long as he's here to create problems, I will be here to solve them. Tell him that the only way I'm going to stop trying is if I'm lying dead six feet under." He practically spat the last sentence at her. Then he spun on his heel, slammed the door shut behind him, and ran down the six steps to the sidewalk.

Amy leaned back against the door. She twirled a finger in her hair and started laughing. "Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Holmes," she said to the empty flat. "I'll tell him." She pulled the curtain of the front window back and watched as he called a cab and drove off down the road. She sauntered across her flat and to the bathroom for a nice hot shower. After all, she deserved something for all her trouble with the detective.

Sherlock was silent the whole ride home except for the address he gave to the cabbie. When they pulled up to the building, he threw the fare at the man and rushed up the stairs. He didn't say a word when John looked up from the newspaper and asked where he'd been. He just changed out of his suit for the first time in two days, showered, put his robe on, and curled up on the couch on his side. It was hours before he moved again.

At noon, he finally looked up from the back of the sofa to see that John had gone off somewhere, but not before setting a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. It was cold now, of course, and Sherlock dumped it into the sink. He glanced at his table of experiments once on the way into the kitchen, and glared at it as if everything was its fault on the way out. Something was definitely wrong if his plethora of experiments and little works of research didn't even remotely interest him, but what? Then again, he had never actually liked psychology, nor did he actually care if something was wrong with him. He sighed heavily and crossed to the window. He drew back the curtain to see a grey sky, grey buildings, and an even greyer road. Thunder rumbled off in the distance somewhere. Another heavy sigh. He dropped the curtain and let it swing back into place. The rain started a minute later – just a few heavy drops at first, but it wasn't five minutes before Sherlock could hear the steady drumming of water on the rooftop. He heard a pounding on the door and ignored it to return to the couch. He picked up the rubber ball from the coffee table and started tossing it at the ceiling.

John walked in a minute later, soaked through to the bone, a bag of groceries in each hand. "Really?" he asked. "You couldn't be bothered to get up and let me in?" When Sherlock didn't answer, he gave up the line of questioning and put the food away. The spot usually occupied by the milk in the fridge, however, was now filled by a half-dissected frog. "Oh my god," John mumbled. "Sherlock? Why does the fridge look like a science classroom?" Again, no answer. "If you don't give me a really good reason for the presence of a frog in the fridge in the next thirty seconds, I'm dumping it outside." Sherlock just sighed – again – and kept tossing the ball in the air. John put the bread and biscuits away and then walked over to Sherlock. "Do you want the frog or not?" Sherlock caught the ball and put it in the pocket of his robe. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

Sherlock huffed and sat up on the couch with his knees tucked in to his chest. He leaned forward and put his head on his knees. "She's working for Moriarty."

"I thought you already decided she was Moriarty."

Sherlock shrugged. "Only in that they're both criminal masterminds who cause problems because they can. I didn't mean she was actually behind it all. And now she tells me she's working for him and – "

"So that's where you were?"

" – she says I should just give up because I'm not good enough to stop him."

John took this in. "Will you?" he asked after a moment.

Sherlock laughed. "How can I?"

"So why's it matter what she – or Moriarty – says?"

Sherlock looked up as if John had just suggested he become an astronaut. "What?"

"If you can't give it up, why's it matter what they say about it?" John repeated.

Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor and leaned back. "It matters because…" He paused to find the right words, but couldn't. "It just does, okay? I don't want the greatest criminal the world has ever seen to think I'm not worthy of being his competition, or that I'm not good enough for him to consider a threat." He stared at the dozens of pictures and articles and notecards he'd tacked up around the mirror over the fireplace. Pictures of her and her handiwork, articles about her crimes, colored notes all over and arrows connecting one thing to another. There had always been something missing, though, and now he knew what it was. Without another word to John, he leapt up and left the room for a minute. He returned with a box in his arms, used a foot to clear off the coffee table, and dropped the box. He tossed the lid to the side and started leafing through all the papers.

"What's this?" John asked, pointing to the box.

"Everything I've got on Moriarty. Now that he's in the picture…" His voice trailed off as he found one of many things he would add to the wall. He took the eight-by-ten of Jim from IT and tacked it up next to one of the girl. "Thanks for not getting rid of all my stuff, by the way," he added as he searched the bookcase for a box of thumbtacks.

"Yeah, no problem… I don't think I would've known what to do with all of it, anyway." John went back to the fridge and rearranged a few things to make room for the milk. "You're staying here for a while, then?"

Sherlock was still darting back and forth from the box to the wall, tacking more and more pages up. Every couple of trips, he'd step back and look at it all for a minute before deciding he needed another piece up there. "Umm… yeah," he said in response to John's question.

"Lunch?" John offered.

"Hmm?" Sherlock had picked up a marker and started drawing more arrows across the papers.

"Do you want lunch? No, let me rephrase that – what do you want for lunch?"

Sherlock picked up the marker for a minute and looked at John. "You know what? I could really go for some roast beef right about now." He smiled briefly and went back to the wall.

John looked at the ceiling and sighed. Of _course_ Sherlock would want the one thing they didn't actually have. "Fine. I'll be back in a few minutes." He started down the stairs only to return a few seconds later. "Umbrella?"

"Behind the door," Sherlock answered without looking up.

He stepped through the door and let it swing shut behind him. Money in hand, he ordered two sandwiches and then stepped back to the wall to wait. A minute later, though, someone he hadn't actually seen in a while stepped in.

"Mycroft," John started, a bit surprised. The last time Sherlock's brother had been in the cafe, it was to say Irene Adler was dead.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Watson." He leaned slightly on his umbrella. "I understand my brother told you about Father?"

John thought back a few days. "Yeah. He just sort of blurted it all out. Said that was why he was detached or whatever… Come to think of it, he wasn't real clear on why he vanished for three years."

Mycroft sighed. "No, he never was very good at getting to the point, was he? The facts, yes. The emotions, not so much." He looked around for a minute, trying to decide where to start. "I think he felt betrayed, more than anything, though I'm sure I couldn't tell you who by. He was eight years old. Doesn't take much at that age for a boy to lose all faith in people. I don't think he ever trusted anyone again. Then when he jumped and faked his own death, he thought you'd be the same way. He didn't think you would take him back - don't tell him I said that, he'll never admit it."

John's order was ready then. He stepped up and took the bag. "I suppose he thought I'd make all those conclusions on my own, then?" he asked Mycroft, but when he turned back, the man had already gone.

"Goodbye to you, too," he muttered as he left the cafe.

Sherlock had kept at his work on the wall while John was out. By the time he returned, Sherlock had expanded the display to cover the entire wall from ceiling to mantle and was in the process of hanging things on the bookshelves. John resisted the urge to complain about the takeover of space – it wasn't as if he used the bookshelves much, anyway – and threw together some lunch for them. He brought a plate over to Sherlock to find the man standing in front of the coffee table, admiring his handiwork.

"All done?"

Sherlock nodded. "For now. Thanks." He took the plate from John and sat in a chair in front of the fireplace. John took a minute to look over the display, but he couldn't begin to follow the connections the detective had drawn between everything, so he went back to the kitchen for his own lunch.

"OH!" he heard from the living room, followed by a crash and a series of thuds. "Sorry!" Sherlock called out. John looked into the next room to see Sherlock standing with one foot on the arm of the chair and another on the back of it. His plate was in shards on the floor, along with two shelves' worth of books.

John turned around and took a deep breath. "Sherlock," he started. "What the _hell_ were you doing to cause that?"

He heard Sherlock's feet hit the ground after he jumped off the chair. "I've got a book somewhere in here," he said as he started searching through the pile of books on the ground.

"Yes, I'm sure you've got a lot of books in there," John answered with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "Was there any one in particular you were looking for, or were you just hoping the right one would throw itself at you?"

Sherlock finished going through all the books at his feet. "Dammit," he muttered, throwing the last one to the side. He stepped back up on the chair and looked through the next shelf over. "There it is!" He pulled a heavy volume off the shelf, jumped off the chair, and stepped around the books now scattered across the carpet. Pacing the room, he flipped through the book until he found what he was apparently looking for. His eyes eagerly scanned the text. Then he grinned and snapped the book shut. "How do you feel about Cambridge?"

"I – what?"

"Cambridge University." Sherlock checked the clock. "I think we've got time for a quick visit."

"Why do want to go to Cambridge all of a sudden?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before launching into his explanation. "Those black cards with the "M" – at first I though maybe it stood for Mary or something, and then this morning after she said she was working for Moriarty I thought maybe that's what it stood for, but then I asked myself, "Why? Why send the cards? Why use such an impressive font?" This is one of the greatest minds of the world we're playing with, so there must be a _reason_ for it. Then I realized I recognized the font from this book I've got on Medieval architecture, and it's got the M on the side, so I thought about Moriarty and the girl and the book and what on earth could they possibly all have in common? _Cambridge._ He once worked a heist or something there, one of those things he did just to show off, and the first time I met the girl she was here as an American looking to register for classes there because even if she did say it was for University of London she was on the page for Cambridge, and some of its buildings are considered to be among the best examples of Gothic architecture in England." He reached down and sorted through the shards of the broken plate to retrieve one of the black cards. "It was in my sandwich." Only then did he pause for breath.

John had listened to all this without interrupting, and he could understand almost everything, but he had one question: "What do you mean it was in your sandwich?"

Sherlock was just pinning the card up, front and center on the mantle. "I got halfway through the sandwich and this lovely little card fell out of it. So. How do you feel about Cambridge?"


	11. Cambridge

And so it was John found himself sitting next to Sherlock in the front of Mycroft's car (apparently Sherlock was a bit quicker than Scotland Yard might have liked when it came to picking locks and hotwiring cars). His phone rang from his pocket. He glanced at the number and put it back with a sigh as they turned onto the next road.

"Mycroft?" John guessed.

"No, he's in a meeting. Lestrade. Probably wants me to look at some old case or something, and I can't afford the time." John nodded and looked out the window. The car was disconcertingly quiet for a few minutes until Sherlock opened the music app on his phone and handed it to John. "Pick something you like."

John scrolled through the songs and found himself staring at a screen of mostly unrecognizable characters, so he just set it to shuffle. He certainly recognized the violin tune that came up first as one that Sherlock often played when he was still up at four in the morning. "How do you have it labeled?"

"Depends on the time period. Anything written before 1900 is in Arabic. Before 1950, Russian. 1970, German. 1980, Japanese. 1990, Mandarin Chinese. 2000, French. And anything more recent than that is Gaelic."

John nodded as if he understood perfectly. "Okay. Why?"

Sherlock kept his eyes on the road in search of the next street. "After I killed Father, Mycroft and I dropped out of school. Mummy wanted to make sure we didn't stop learning altogether, so she set a competition for us to see who could learn the most languages. I spent a few hours translating all my music one Saturday and never really got around to changing it."

Neither of them said anything for a while. John wanted to say something, but didn't know how to respond to that. They both seemed perfectly content to sit and listen to the music, ranging from the violin piece that had played at first to a song by the Beetles to some sort of foreign rap. John was more than a little surprised by the variety. What Sherlock had said had reminded John of what he'd learned about the detective's childhood just the other day, though. John just didn't know if he wanted to know any more about it, for one, and he didn't know how touchy the subject was with Sherlock, for another. He spent three songs trying to put together a question about it, but couldn't find the right words. At that point, he just gave up on it for the time being, figuring that if it really mattered, the words would come to him later.

Sherlock could read John easily enough, though. "You're worried." It was a statement, not a question.

"No, I just – it's fine." John turned out to the window and tapped out the beat of the song on the armrest.

Sherlock sighed. "You're worried about me and what happened with my father."

The tapping stopped. "Okay, so I'm worried. I'm worried because I've only just learned that my best friend had an alcoholic father, and that he killed that father when he was eight. I'm worried because that happened ages ago and I only just found out about it, and it makes me wonder if there's anything else you hide because you don't want to talk about it or make people worry about you. Because you act all cold and detached and you called yourself a sociopath once, but you're not, because I know you, Sherlock – or at least I thought I did – and that's not actually you. It can't be. So, yes, I'm worried." John looked down at the floor and then back up to the window and started tapping again. "Sorry. I… I'll shut up."

Sherlock bit his lip and pretended to put all his attention on the road, even though he didn't really need to. He didn't know if he wanted to say anything or not, and either way, he didn't know what he could say.

John waited to see if Sherlock was going to say anything else, but he didn't, so he reached over and turned up the music a bit. They spent the rest of the drive listening to Sherlock's music and waiting at stoplights.

It was half past two when the gothic structures Sherlock had referred to in the book came into view. Sherlock turned onto a side street. "John, welcome to Cambridge."

They left the car behind a café near one of the libraries. Sherlock locked the doors and looked around for a moment. "Definitely the library," he said, not quite loud enough for John to think he was actually addressing anyone. He checked something on his phone and then nodded as if confirming what he'd already known. "Coming?" he asked, already making his way towards the library. John ran to catch up before falling in step with Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room when they entered the building, taking in his surroundings. "Split up. You start down here, I'll take the second floor."

"Sorry, but what are we looking for, exactly?" John asked before Sherlock could run off.

"Anything that looks like it's connected to Moriarty." Sherlock took off up the stairs, two at a time, and John was on his own. He scanned the floor and saw books, lots of books, and a computer room in the back. He shrugged. She had said she was pretty good with computers, so it was a good as any a place to start, wasn't it? When he stepped into the room, though, he realized he had absolutely no idea what he was looking for. Another card? A signature? An autographed picture? A nice little note saying, "Hey, it's Moriarty, and you're three steps behind me. Hurry up," maybe?

John sighed and sat down at one of the computers. He opened the library catalogue. A show-off who's good with computers – maybe she was trying to be really obvious by changing some authors or titles. Quick searches for "Moriarty", "Mary McNaughton", and "Sherlock" didn't find anything useful, though – just a few names tucked into the middle of some novels that really did exist, according to Amazon. John reached back to adjust the monitor and found a piece of paper stuck to the side. He pulled it off and glanced it over, expecting to see someone's phone number or book list or something. It wasn't, though. It was a sketch of the same "M" that had shown up on all the business cards John and Sherlock had seen. John turned the note over and found a few scribbled notes that almost looked like gibberish – 500p x 600p, #C0C0C0, 75º, 85mm x 55mm, 300g/m2, black, x50… He found himself typing everything into Google to find out what it meant, and when he did, he closed everything on the computer and ran upstairs to find Sherlock.

The detective was in the mystery section, glancing over every call number, author, and title on the shelf before moving on to the next one. "Hey," John started. Sherlock seemed not to notice. John stuck the post-it in front of his face. "I think she designed the cards here." That got Sherlock's attention. He grabbed the note from John and skimmed over the back and then the front, and then looked at the back again and held it up to the light and about an inch away from his face.

"Well, that's very useful." He folded the note and tucked it into his jacket.

"What is?"

Sherlock sighed. "She was anxious, in a hurry, and knew exactly what she was doing, at least when she wrote this. I spent a week brushing up on handwriting analysis two years back."

John nodded. "Does it tell us anything useful? When she was here, for example?"

Sherlock looked a bit put off to have what he'd said labeled irrelevant, but he looked at the paper again. "Somewhere between eight and ten weeks ago." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Might not hurt to ask for camera footage…" he muttered. "Come on, then."

They went down to the front desk, Sherlock played his "someone owes me a favor" card, and five minutes later, they were looking at footage from two and a half months ago. Sherlock opened different dates in four windows and clicked fast-forward a few times.

"I don't see how you're going to – " John started, only to be shushed by Sherlock. So John took a step back and picked up a book that was laying around while Sherlock looked for her in the footage.

"Got it," he said ten minutes later. By the time John had put the book down and stepped back over to the screen, Sherlock had closed three of the videos and enlarged the fourth. It was, without a doubt, the girl now known as Moriarty sitting at the same computer John had found the note at. Timestamps indicated that she was there for less than half an hour between one and one-thirty that afternoon. They watched her mess around on the computer, make a phone call, and then get up and leave. She only spoke to one person who walked into the room and sat down next to her for a minute. Sherlock called someone over to ask for an ID and learned that the person didn't work there. "Someone outside, then. She set up a meeting with him," Sherlock decided. He sent the file to his inbox to look at later. The video was paused, but he sat there and started off into space for a few minutes before standing up rather abruptly and rubbing his hands together. "Well, that was _very_ informative," he said, and for a minute, John couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "Three o'clock," he said. "Coffee? We parked at a café."

"Sounds good," John agreed. John thanked the woman at the desk as they left the building. The sun was clear in the sky now, and it had warmed up quite a bit since the rain in London. The area seemed to have grown much busier in the half-hour they'd been there, so there was a bit of a line in the café. Sherlock ordered for them and they took a table by the window. "Now, were you seeing something invisible to the rest of the world on that tape, or was it really the waste of time it seemed to be to me?" John finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "The note confirmed a few things about her psyche. I'll get the name of the printing company she used when I can enhance the picture at home in case there's anything there. The only thing that really seems useful is the man she spoke to, though. I'll have Mycroft run it through some facial recognition software when we get home."

"Doesn't Scotland Yard have that sort of stuff?"

"Well, yes, but the legal ones aren't any good," Sherlock answered. The "obviously" didn't have to be said; it was still there.

They sat in silence for a minute before John asked, "Doesn't Mycroft worry about you getting involved with dangerous sociopathic homicidal criminal masterminds?"

"I think he knows by now that I'm past the point of no return with her. I'm seeing this one through to the end, and I think he also knows that that's going to result in one of us dying."

"Seriously? A fight to the death?"

Sherlock took a few sips of coffee before answering. "It's obvious, isn't it? She's clearly not going to be stopped by any sort of legal threat, I seriously doubt any jail could hold her longer than she wanted to be there, and she's the most arrogant person I've ever met. She won't stop until she's dead, and she's made it clear she's not going quietly. One of us will be dead before it's over." He read the worry in John's face, though. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it's not me."

"You can't promise that," John said quietly, thinking back to his days in Afghanistan.

"John Hamish Watson," Sherlock started. "I am personally promising you that Moriarty is not going to kill me. Not now, not ever."

"Just be careful with her, Sherlock."

"I will be."

They finished their drinks in silence. Sherlock stood up first and John followed him out to the car. Sherlock's lockpicking was getting better every time he did it – twenty-four seconds to get back into the car. He hotwired the car, started a playlist of his favorite violin music, and started the long drive back home.


	12. Moran

Sherlock's phone woke him up the next morning with an incessant ringing. That is, John woke him up to complain about the ringing. "Hmm?" he sighed into the phone, still half-asleep.

"I must say I didn't expect to find you sleeping at this hour." Mycroft, Sherlock realized, jumping up from the sofa where he'd collapsed after the drive home.

"Did you find him?" Sherlock had sent his brother the video and requested an ID on the man who stopped to chat with young Moriarty a full twelve hours ago, and as he thought about it, it was a wonder it took a full twelve hours to find him. Mycroft was usually a bit quicker than that.

"Sebastian Moran. Left the army about a year ago, but not before developing a reputation as the best sniper on the continent. Hasn't given up the job; he's a member of a gun club and has frequents a number of shooting ranges."

"Assassin, then," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, I don't know what you're getting yourself into, but do be careful. I don't want to get a call from my superiors hearing my brother's gone and gotten himself involved in some international conspiracy again."

"I wasn't aware you had superiors."

"Just don't let your guard down." Mycroft hung up before Sherlock could argue that he was, in fact, more than capable of taking care of himself.

"News?" John asked, still a little irate about being woken up an hour earlier than he'd intended to, and by Sherlock's phone, no less.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. The man talking to Moriarty on the tape – Sebastian Moran. Skilled sniper. More likely than not being paid by her for the occasional job." He attempted to brush the wrinkles out of his jacket, decided it was futile, and headed to his bedroom to change. When he returned in an identical suit and a dark blue shirt, he picked up right where he'd left off. "I'd like to have a word with this Sebastian. Weekday morning, I'd be willing to bet he's at one of those shooting ranges." He started scribbling down names onto a scrap of paper, consulting his phone every now and then. "You check those, I'll take the other half," he instructed, handing the paper to John. "Let me know if you find him." He was halfway to the stairs before John could say anything.

"What, now? I'm not dressed, I haven't had breakfast, and – wait, there was one more… it's half past six in the morning!"

"Better hurry up then. I'll get started and we'll back here in at nine if neither of us have found him." He continued down the stairs and the door slammed shut a moment later. John shut his eyes, hoping that maybe it was all some bizarre dream and he would wake up in an hour or two to find Sherlock reading a textbook or staring through his microscope or something, but of course that wasn't the case. He sighed heavily and started getting himself ready for the day.

After checking half the places on his list, John still hadn't found anything. He'd been at it for an hour and half, zigzagging across London, searching for some man who may or may not actually be within a hundred miles of the city at the moment. He was stepping into the next cab when he got a message from Sherlock with the location of one more shooting range, so he gave the driver that address instead of the next one on his list.

When the cab stopped in front of the brick building on the outer edges of the city, John found Sherlock standing outside, leaning against the wall and searching the landscape for something. "Well? Is he here?" John asked.

Sherlock tilted his head up. "No, I brought you all the way out here so we could discuss the fact that he's not here, and then resume our searching elsewhere." John raised an eyebrow. "He's been here since eight, just like every other Wednesday for the past nine months, according to the guard inside. Shall we?"

They stepped in and the guard pointed Sherlock to Mr. Moran's shooting lane after handing them both the required ear protection. Neither one of them put it on, though. Sherlock just stood off to the side and waited for Moran to notice them. John followed his example, and the detective took the opportunity to get his bearings with the sniper.

Mid-thirties, but time had treated him well. Slim build, not to be mistaken for weak. He wore a black polo shirt and khakis, almost enough to be mistaken for a uniform if not for the fact that he didn't have a proper job. But murder paid well, as Sherlock had heard. Clean-shaven face. Nothing significant about his haircut. He was shooting with his right hand when they walked in, but switched to his left half a dozen shots later, as if he had to prove himself to his visitors.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" he asked without looking from the target. "Yes, I know you, Sherlock Holmes. John, too."

Sherlock couldn't quite place the accent – it sounded like some combination of every one he knew – and that irked him more than anything. He still waited for the man to stop firing before saying anything. "Sebastian, isn't it? Or do you prefer Moran?" He stepped forward and took a closer look at the sniper's weapon of choice. "Nice gun. I prefer the older model, though. It's a bit heavier, but that gives it better balance."

"Sebastian, if you don't mind." He reloaded the handgun and held it up again, continuing to speak in between shots. "I was told you'd be visiting soon. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, consulting detectives of London. Ready to stop anyone who dares to break our country's law."

Sherlock glared at Sebastian. "The consulting title's mine, actually."

"Then what do you keep him around for?" Sebastian fired back without missing a beat.

Sherlock ignored the question. "You're working with Moriarty, I understand."

"For."

"Sorry?"

"For her, not with. She sends me a name and a face, I take care of them, my fee shows up in my bank account. It's a job, Mr. Holmes. No more, no less."

"You make it sound as though you've never met face-to-face," the detective observed.

Sebastian set the gun on the table in front of him and stretched his arms behind his back. "Well, I haven't."

"No, never," John started, producing a printed screenshot of the security footage in which Sebastian was having a chat with Moriarty. "Just over a month ago."

"Oh," Sebastian started, packing up his things. "That was her?"

"You've already said you knew Moriarty was a girl. How, if not through some meeting?"

"The first time she hired me it was over the phone. That meeting there," he explained, pointing at the picture, "was to discuss a few technicalities. I figured she'd sent out some middle man." He finished packing up and took a few steps forward as if to leave. "You mind?"

Sherlock stepped to the side. "If you are going to keep doing this for her, try and keep yourself useful. She has a tendency to dispose of things when she's done with them. I'd hate to see a man with your ability disappear like that."

"I'd be more worried about myself if I was you, Mr. Holmes."

The other two waited until he'd cleared the hallway to say anything. "Think he was telling the truth?" John asked.

"About knowing her face? Don't see how it makes a difference." Sherlock flipped a switch to bring the target forward. Twenty-five shots. Five evenly distributed in each ring on the target. He was good. Sherlock pulled the paper down, creased it into eighths, and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Just because. "You alright?"

Something had crossed John's face. A shadow, of what Sherlock did not know, but he could guess. Sebastian the (former?) sniper. Couldn't have been good for him; probably reminded him of his time on the battlefield, of his deeds.

He shifted. "Yeah, fine."

Then again, maybe not. But Sherlock didn't press the matter. He knew his friend's boundaries: the war was definitely off-limits. "Time to go?" John nodded and led the way out of the building.

They had to walk around a bit before finding a cab to get them home, but they did all the same. Sherlock posted the used target on the wall above the fireplace, mixing it in with rapidly growing collection of data on Moriarty. He spent the next several hours reclining on the sofa - hours which John chose to spend catching up on sleep.

It wasn't nearly enough time for the doctor, though, before there was a pounding at the door and Mrs. Hudson was shouting up the stairs. "Boys! There's a box at the door for you!"

John sat up, took a second to gather his thoughts, then ambled past the living room to see why Sherlock wasn't handling the matter. Ah. He was thinking. Leaving John to retrieve the package. Why couldn't Mrs. Hudson just have brought it up, he found himself wondering on the way down the stairs. The question was easily answered, though: the package was, in fact, a small trunk. More of a chest, really. The kind one might put at the foot of a bed to store out-of-season clothing.

"Sherlock!" John shouted up the stairs. "Might need your help with this, if you're not too busy."

The detective appeared at the top of the stairs a moment later. "What?" he asked with the tone of someone who'd just been interrupted in the middle of some really important meeting. (But this was Sherlock. He was probably just considering the caliber of gun Moran favored.) Then he saw the chest. "Oh," he breathed, raising an eyebrow. "Moriarty?"

John pulled a paper from the top of the case. "My dearest Sherlock," he read. "Yeah, I think that's her." They lugged the thing up to the living room, where it was dropped in front of the mantle with a flourish. (Sherlock's doing. Never mind John's foot, narrowly escaping the edge of the box.) Sherlock produced a crowbar from somewhere and was about to have a go at the hinges when John stopped him. "Don't you want to examine it or something first? Could be dangerous."

Sherlock shrugged with barely a moment's hesitation. "Nah. Not her style." He pried the lid off. Neither of them got much of a look at the contents of the chest before it sort of exploded. Like confetti from a cannon.

The two men just stared at each other through the mess, confused, until the debris settled on the floor, the table, the mantle, their shoulders. Black shavings, a few silver flecks here and there…

"The cards," they both decided in the same instant. John elaborated. "So she shredded the leftovers, put them in a trunk rigged with some sort of spring system, and dropped it at the door for us. Why? To show off?"

"That's part of it," Sherlock answered under his breath. "But not all…" He scooped up a handful of confetti and let it trickle through his fingers and flutter to the ground once more. "She's toying with us." He blew the last few bits of confetti off his palm before returning to the sofa.

"Right, then. Cat and mouse, is that it?" John wondered, thinking out loud. Then, "Want me to brush all this up?" Sherlock made a non-committal sound and waved his hand at the pile, which John took to mean no. "Hungry, then?" No response. It was honestly quite amazing to John how quickly Sherlock could trap himself in his mind palace and lock out the world. At least, that's what John assumed it was.

John was preparing for dinner when he noticed that Sherlock had moved. He was sitting up now, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. His lips moved, but no sound loud enough for a human ear to distinguish came out.

"How's that?" John inquired.

Sherlock sighed. He stood up, yanked the knife out of the mantle where it'd been siting for who knows how long, and walked back towards the sofa. Again, he moved his lips without saying anything.

"Sherlock?"

"I have to kill her," he repeated, barely a whisper. With a sudden burst of energy he spun around and hurled the knife at the wall. It stuck firmly in the picture of Moriarty - the girl. "I have to kill her." Louder, and with more conviction this time. "It's the only way. She's not just going to stop, not ever. She's one of those people who'll try to outlive any god having the last word, and…" He found himself needing to justify the statement to John. Or maybe to himself; Sherlock never was an easy man to read.

He turned back and made eye contact with John. "Right?" To John, he sounded like a child asking his parents if he was making the right decision, if he had done the right thing in response to someone else's actions.

John crossed the room and pulled Sherlock's gun from behind a row of books on the shelf, where it had been since he'd started threatening to shoot the wall again. He reassembled it and handed it to his friend. "She's killed people. She won't hesitate to do it again. I've killed for less." He examined his own gun and tucked it back into his waistband. "So what's the plan?"


	13. Robbery

They were called in to a robbery-slash-murder the next morning. Jewelry store. Lost ten thousand pounds in diamonds and gold, another five thousand in cash from the safe. The security guard was lying dead at his desk, no clear sign of death. Security cameras had been cut. No broken glass, no sign of forced entry, no alarms went off. Seems whoever it was had known the codes. It took Sherlock less than a minute to guess that the owner of the store had done it himself, less than five to confirm it, and less than seven to get a confession out of the man. Apparently he'd hoped to collect on the insurance.

And, yet, the whole time he'd been in the shop, he'd been far from his best. Details looked blurred. Sounds were muffled. Anderson's voice was a constant buzzing in the background. John had to keep bringing him back to the case from whatever room he was pacing in his mind palace. Half his mind was working on the robbery, and the other half was thinking about Moriarty. How he had no choice but to kill her, how it was the only thing he could do to ensure that she wouldn't do anything ever again. Those statements were running through his head on a loop, as if he still had to convince himself it was right, necessary – or at least justified. And then there was the plan. He and John had sketched everything out the day before in relatively vague terms. She'd already left her flat. Probably moved out of the country. They couldn't afford to spend every waking hour looking for her, but they would spend some time over the weekend tracking her down. When they found her, they'd get her alone, ask for her motives, and when the time seemed right, shoot her. John felt it would be an insult to get her when she wasn't looking.

Sherlock had no intention of following that plan, though. It was only to make John feel better about the whole thing that he'd agreed to it in the first place. He knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd found her and ended her at the first possible opportunity.

"Sherlock." John. The detective snapped out of his thoughts and back to the crime scene. "Sherlock, everyone's gone."

He glanced around to see that everyone else had, in fact, left. How long ago? Five minutes? Ten? Didn't matter. He nodded but didn't say a word.

"Home?" John asked.

Another nod.

Neither of them said anything during the twenty-minute ride back to Baker Street. Sherlock was lost in his thoughts and John didn't know how – or if – he should interrupt him. When they did reach their destination, Sherlock hardly flinched, so John made a big show of paying and thanking the cabbie. Sherlock got the message and followed John into their flat. Once inside, he went straight to his room, locked the door, and collapsed on his bed.

There was a quick _tap-tap-tap _on his bedroom door a few minutes later. John. "You alright?"

Sherlock grunted in response, face buried in his pillow.

"Hungry?"

Same response.

John tried the doorknob. "Sherlock, unlock the door. I'm sorry it was such an easy case, and I'm sure you've got a lot on your mind, but I'm not going to let you lock yourself in your room for the next week and half waiting for her to show up on our doorstep waving a white flag!"

Sherlock chuckled at the thought of that. Just imagine it, the dangerous Moriarty surrendering like that!

"So help me, if you don't open this door right now, I'll call Mycroft." John heard a light thud as Sherlock jumped off the bed, and a few floorboards creaked as he crossed the room.

"You wouldn't dare," Sherlock challenged from behind the door.

"Try me."

The door swung open a minute later to a scowling Sherlock. "One of these days you're going to have to stop playing that card."

John smirked. "And today is not that day."

Sherlock sighed and went right back to his bed, leaving the door open this time. "I'm not stupid. I don't expect the impossible," he muttered.

"What?"

"It'd be madness to expect her to surrender like that."

John took a step towards the bed. "And you just passed up on at least four opportunities to insult Anderson. I'm not sure how far from madness you are."

"Did I? Damn."

"I'm not blind, Sherlock. Something's bothering you."

"No idea what you're talking about." Sherlock picked up his phone and started typing furiously. He was looking at some news articles when John pulled the phone from his hands.

"You honestly expect to find her through the Guardian?"

Sherlock huffed. "If I agree to sit and talk about my feelings with you, will you stop interfering with my search for her?"

"Nope." John set the phone on a shelf on the other side of the room. "I'm not going to let you run off on your own, because then you'll do something stupid and arrogant and get yourself killed."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to get myself killed."

"And you said the same thing when you were with that serial killer cabbie, and when you were in the pool with Moriarty, and when you were on the roof of St. Bart's. You can only be lucky so many times."

"You know I don't believe in luck."

"Then how about the fact that this girl might actually be cleverer than you, and she just might be able to beat you?"

Sherlock shrugged it off and stared intently at the ceiling.

"Look, it's kind of obvious you're worrying about this. You have to find her, and kill her, and yeah, that's a lot to ask – "

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted. "I'm not going to be able to rest until I've taken care of her, so I am going to spend every minute from now on searching for her, and then I'm going to kill her the first chance I get! Terribly sorry if I can't let myself sit around waiting just so it's _fair_." He leapt up off the bed, picked his phone up off the shelf, and stormed out of the room.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa when John walked into the living room, flicking the knife into the coffee table, prying it out, and repeating. Needless to say, that unfortunate six-inch area of the table was covered in quarter-inch slits from the blade.

"If you're going to try and convince me to calm down about the whole thing or something, you can save your breath. It's not going to work," Sherlock said without looking up.

"I know." John pulled the knife out of the table before Sherlock could throw it again. "Just tell me everything you find out and don't go after her without me."

Sherlock looked up, either because of what John had just said or because he had taken the knife away. "Agreed." Then, with a sudden change in mood, he walked out of the room. John heard the shower running a moment later. Well, that was Sherlock for you. A raging storm of fury one minute, a calculating machine the next, and a hormonal teenager in between. John rubbed at the marks on the table with a thumb. Wasn't the first time he'd abused the furniture, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Sherlock reappeared a few minutes later, buttoning his shirt with one hand and checking something on his phone with another. "None for me, thanks," he said when he saw John starting on the tea. "Mycroft's got nothing on her."

"He might just be keeping it from you. Wouldn't be the first time," John reasoned.

Sherlock ran a hand through his damp hair and collapsed on the sofa. "No, I'm on his server. Nothing. Absolutely no trace of her besides the fact that she won that trial a few weeks back and then sold her flat the other day."

"Hang on – you hacked your brother's computer server?"

"Of course. Like you said, he lies. Thinks I might get hurt or something."

"Oh, and we all know how ridiculous of an idea that is."

Sherlock hmphed and drummed his fingers on his chest. "I'm not actually upset or anything," he finally said. "That she's vanished, I mean. At least this way I'll have something to look forward to for the foreseeable future."

John nodded. "You always did prefer the slightly mad ones," he muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, nothing." He flipped open the day-old paper on the table and stirred his tea. "Nothing at all."

They both just sat there for a while, John reading the paper, Sherlock staring at the ceiling and thinking. But really, they were both thinking. A lot. Where she might've gone, when and/or if she might come back, why she left, if she was still a threat… Sherlock's phone rang to snap them both out of it late in the afternoon.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, checking the screen.

John looked up from the table. "You're not going to answer it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I seriously doubt he could provide anything useful to me at this point in time."

The phone rang out, and there was only a brief moment of silence before another one rang. John fished his phone from his pocket. "Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded and answered it. "Careful, I think Sherlock might throw a fit if this isn't important," he said as soon as he was sure it was Greg.

"I don't know. He didn't happen to place an order for a thousand business cards in my name, did he? Fancy, black, silver letter m…" he started explaining.

John looked at Sherlock. "She's sent him a box of calling cards. Useful?"

Sherlock sat up suddenly. "Might be. Tell him we'll be right over."

John relayed the message to the inspector. They were at Scotland Yard ten minutes later – a cab can get somewhere much sooner than expected given that the driver is paid generously.

"Business cards?" Sherlock looked around expectantly when they reached Lestrade's desk. "In the post, dropped off, what?"

Lestrade handed the cardboard box to Sherlock. "Postmarked Hamburg, Germany, four days ago. Arrived with this afternoon's deliveries."

Sherlock pulled a card from the package after examining the box itself. He held it up to the light and handed the box off to John. "Germany… Why Germany?" he whispered, thinking out loud.

"Ah, yes, Germany," John began. "Land of sausage, sauerbraten, and dictators."

"Not quite," Sherlock said with half a smile. The smile vanished. "Rich Brook."

Lestrade walked back to his desk with a stack of paperwork. "What, the actor?"

Sherlock pointed a finger at him. "No, shut up. Rich Brook. Translates to _reichen_ _bach_ in German. Reichenbach Falls, a painting of which was the start of it all three years ago. The Reichenbach Falls are in Switzerland." He whipped his phone out of his jacket and was back on Mycroft's server within seconds. "And guess who's just bought a house in Geneva."

"Moriarty?" John tried.

"It's Miss Williams now, but yes. Abigail Williams. Seems to be trying a bit harder to stay out of sight this time – cut and dyed her hair and picked up a pair of glasses, but it's the same face."

"Can't be trying too hard, though. You did find her." Sherlock looked at John, feeling more than a little insulted. "What? If she didn't want to be found, you wouldn't have been able to find her."

"Fair enough. I'm afraid I won't be able to help out for a few days, inspector. John, it's been a while since you went travelling. I hear Switzerland's nice this time of year."

That evening, Sherlock made a few calls, cashed in a few favors, and booked them two tickets, first class, on a 3:00AM flight to Geneva, Switzerland. John searched the flat for jumpers and passports and cursed the man who'd decided it was a good idea to fly planes at three in the morning when he realized he wouldn't have more than an hour or two to sleep before the flight. (He would've strangled Sherlock if he'd had the energy when a loud voice brought him straight out of some welcome REM sleep to see the detective himself standing over the bed.)

The plane had just crossed Paris when the sun started climbing over the horizon. John had fallen asleep as soon as he'd taken his seat and he was leaning on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock hadn't tried to wake him or anything. He just let the man sleep – they might not get a chance to rest for several days, depending on how things went in Geneva. And as he looked past John out the window, he said the closest thing to a prayer he ever would. Because as much as he wanted to think he was, he wasn't invincible, and neither was John. And the last thing either of them needed was to be beaten by this Moriarty character. The only thing either of them needed, in fact, was to see her lose. See her fall from this throne she'd created for herself. See her admit defeat, and then see her die. And they needed to see it soon.


	14. John

It was much easier than it should have been for them to find her. Maybe that should've been the first warning. They went to her neighborhood, found her house, asked around and confirmed that it was, in fact, Moriarty living there. Then they went to a small café for some food and Sherlock spotted her across the street. Before he could even tell John, his phone beeped.

_Tag. You're it._

"Come on, John." Sherlock stood up and pulled out a few bills for a tip. "She's here."

John took another sip of his coffee before dumping the rest of it. "What, in the café?"

Sherlock nodded at a bookshop across the street that she had stopped in front of. "There. Ready?"

John checked for his gun. "When you are."

They left in a hurry, pushing through a group of tourists on the way out. When they locked sights on her again, she turned towards them, flashed a smile, waved, and took off down the road. They chased her through the sidestreets and alleys of the city to finally lose sight of her in an abandoned warehouse several miles from where they had started.

Sherlock looked around the empty space frantically. How had he lost her? She'd definitely run in, and there was only one exit as far as he could tell…

"Took you long enough."

He looked up towards the source of the voice and saw her stretched out on a beam that spanned the ceiling some ten feet up. "Really, Mr. Holmes, I had expected more of you."

Sherlock shrugged. "You must forgive me for looking into a few other cases."

"Anything good?"

"Not really, no."

She stood up and started tip-toeing along the beam. "Let me guess. You're her to kill me because you've finally come to the conclusion that I won't be stopped unless you do."

"Well, when you put it like that…"

She continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I have got one question, though. However did you manage to drag Dr. Watson into this?"

"Wasn't too difficult," John answered. He looked down and realized his gun had made its way into his hand.

"Oh, put the gun away. You're not going to be needing it today."

John held his ground. "Now, before one of us kills you – though I think we've agreed it's going to be Sherlock's honor – do me a favor. Why? Why did you become some mastermind criminal and – "

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted. "If we're going to do this, it's going to be fair. No guard dogs." His eyes flicked to a pile of crates in the shadows.

She stopped walking and sat down on the beam again. "Well, you're no fun." She turned to the crates. "Come on out, Sebastian. Go and do… Well, whatever it is you do in your free time." There was some rustling around and what sounded like a rifle being packed away, and then Sebastian Moran was visible for just a moment before a door slammed shut and he was gone.

"There." She jumped down off the beam. "We're alone."

"So answer the question," John challenged. "Why?"

She started walking forward. "Because I can. Oh, I wouldn't expect you to understand, doctor. But your friend Mr. Holmes here certainly should. I'm too smart for my own good, aren't I? Yes, of course I am. And I got bored. And I realized I had the world in the palm of my hand, no boundaries, no limits, and no one to stop me." She stopped a few feet in front of Sherlock. "Not even you. Not even the brilliant consulting detective I'd heard so much about could stop me. You disappointed me, Mr. Holmes. And I can't beat someone who's just a disappointment. So I am going to walk out that door. You are not going to follow me. We are never going to cross paths again. Neither of us will hurt the other. Agreed?"

Sherlock pulled his own gun. "Not exactly. See, John and I have been talking – "

"Oh, is that all?"

" – and we've decided that you can't be allowed to keep going like this. But we also know the only thing you'll allow to stop you is the grave. So here's my counteroffer. I kill you. We walk away. Maybe we face charges, maybe we get off clean. Sherlock and Moriarty never cross paths again. Agreed?"

She sighed dramatically. "For the love of all that is good in this world, Mr. Holmes, why must you be so BORING?" She started walking around, wildly waving a gun that she'd produced from thin air. "I'm tired of this game, so I'm going to kill you," she mimicked, free hand providing the air quotes.

"It's not a game anymore." His voice was tense, his fist was clenched at his side, but Sherlock's hold on the gun was steady as ever.

"Then what, pray tell, is it?" she demanded, pivoting sharply on one foot and locking eyes with Sherlock.

"Killing people just to make a point? I believe they call that war; I should know," John answered.

She turned her back on them and rubbed her forehead with one hand. "You know, I really was hoping it wouldn't come to this."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sherlock muttered.

"Now the only question is which of you to kill," she continued. "The detective? That would certainly hurt the world the most. Losing the best of the crime-fighting force like that. But what of his friend, the doctor? Admit it, Mr. Holmes, that would hurt. And the best time to kick a man is when he's already down. Who knows, an injured detective might have more of an impact than a dead one."

Sherlock did his best to keep the words from meaning anything emotionally – all that mattered at the moment was that she be stopped. Don't give away an Achilles' heel.

Regardless, he didn't miss her hand switching the safety off on the handgun. Nor the whispered, "The doctor it is, then." But it was too late. The next few moments were all a bit of a blur.

She spun around, gun at the ready.

"JOHN!" Sherlock.

She fired.

An explosion of gunpowder and smoke.

A bullet in John's shoulder.

But in order for Sherlock to see that, he had to look away from her, and when he thought to fire back, it was too late. She was gone.

John's gun fell to the ground. He was frozen in shock – it must have been shock, because Sherlock knew that no pain was going to register at that point.

Sherlock fell to one knee to catch John before he could hit the floor. One hand supported his head, the other was reaching for a phone. "Dammit, John, stay with me. Come on, focus on my voice, can you do that? Just a few minutes, I'll call an ambulance, everything will be fine – John? John! Don't you dare, don't you dare – "

As a scientist, Sherlock knew exactly what was happening. The bullet had been low in his shoulder, barely able to be considered a shoulder shot, a bit too close to his lung and major blood vessels. He was losing blood, and fast. He had forty seconds – sixty, tops. He was having trouble breathing, too. He wasn't in pain, though, because at a certain point the body decides that it's futile to waste energy on sending pain signals to the brain when there's a major wound to try and repair. His body wouldn't be able to fix it, though, not in time.

But none of that mattered. And in that moment, all Sherlock could do was sit there and beg John to stay with him just a little longer, and look at the blood, so much blood – why was there so much blood? This couldn't be real, John couldn't really be sitting there losing that much blood, Sherlock's hands couldn't really be getting stained with that blood. Sherlock was a scientist. He was logical. He knew, somewhere in his mind, that John was already gone, but that didn't stop him from screaming himself hoarse, swearing at the top of his lungs, ordering John not to die, not there, not then, and as his friend's eyes glazed over (it wasn't sudden, like you would think it would be, it was more like a gradual dimming until all the life was gone from them) all he could do was sit there. He felt his phone fall from his hand, and his vision blurred. And he just sat there for god only knows how long.

Eventually, he stood up and fired at boxes, crates, shadows, windows until his gun was empty and the only sound when he pulled the trigger was the quiet _click_ of the firing pin striking the empty chamber.

Those were the shots the police heard. And when they arrived, it wasn't long before the medical personnel were called in. Sherlock had crawled back into his mind palace by then, though at that moment it was looking more like a shack and less like a palace. His mind numbly registered the fact that it was John Watson's body they were zipping into that black bag. Everything he saw, everything he heard was as though through a filter – sounds were muffled and visions were blurred. He climbed into the police car at the instruction of a sergeant. They took him to the offices downtown, wanted to ask him about what had happened. But he wasn't talking. Not when they wanted his name, or someone to contact on his behalf, or someone to contact on behalf of the corpse they'd found in the building. He didn't even mutter a thank-you when someone told him that they'd been given orders to put him on the next flight to London, even if he did know it was Mycroft. How did Mycroft know already? Didn't matter.

Mycroft had someone pick him up at the airport and drive him to 221B. There would be no twenty-four hour watch, even if Mycroft did know his brother's actions were about to become random and difficult to predict. Sherlock had lost his friend. He needed space, not a guard, and – for once – his brother wasn't going to interfere.

So what were Sherlock's actions? He ignored Mrs. Hudson when she stepped out of their – no, his – kitchen complaining about ears or tongues or something. He bolted his bedroom door shut, even though there really was no-one to keep out. He fell down onto his bed without bothering to kick off his shoes, and that was the last thing he did for three days.


	15. Aftershock

Mycroft was pounding with his umbrella on the green door labeled '221' a week after the incident. Sherlock hadn't taken any calls or responded to any emails or texts in that time, so Mycroft figured it best he take things into his own hands.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door after thirty seconds of persistent knocking. "Where is he?" Mycroft asked before anyone wasted time with petty small talk.

"Sherlock? Well, I – I don't know. I think he's upstairs, though I haven't heard a word from him in a while. He told me not to bother – " Mycroft brushed past her and marched up the staircase.

"Sherlock!" he called from the doorway. He walked in without waiting for any sort of response. Living room and kitchen were still a mess. Signs of life within the past few days. Coat on the door. Lab looked as if someone had interrupted an experiment. Cold pot of tea on the counter – dusty; it had been there for at least nine days. No interruptions in the dust on the stairs going up, though. Still in his room, then.

"Sherlock!" he repeated after trying the doorknob. He rapped on the door with his umbrella. "I know you're in there. Open up."

Nothing. Mycroft had to take a moment to prepare himself for the worst – he knew it was very possible, but he hoped he was very wrong. He looked around the living room one more time. Picked up a gun from the coffee table. Shot the lock on Sherlock's door.

He ignored Mrs. Hudson's complaint from the first floor. The gun was returned to the table before Mycroft pushed the door open, not sure what he would find. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to find.

Definitely not what he saw.

Sherlock sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. One sleeve was rolled up just past the elbow. A leather case the size of a small book was lying open next to him. And held very carefully between his two forefingers was a hypodermic needle.

"Put it away. _Now_."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, relax. I didn't actually do anything."

Still, that told Mycroft what, exactly, the situation was, so he wasn't worried about his brother doing something stupidly irrational in response to him picking up both the case and the needle. He packed everything away and put the case on the top shelf of Sherlock's closet. Sherlock had been holding onto it as a reminder; no sense taking it away now.

"You considered it."

Sherlock rolled his sleeve back down. "Obviously."

"Why?"

"Piss off."

Mycroft took a few steps and stopped just in front of Sherlock. "I asked you a question."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He tilted his head back, leaning against the bed, and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fist. "And I said piss off. It's none of your concern."

"It's been eight years since you touched that case. I really do think it is my concern."

Sherlock's eyes flew open. He stared straight ahead at the wall. If his brother had been at eye level, he might have seen the new fury, the unprecedented iciness in his stare. "You got me out of police custody – I think you know why."

Mycroft sighed. "Mummy never did like that, you keeping your feelings all bottled up like that."

The younger brother jumped to his feet. "Don't even bring her into this."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

"What, you want to hear me say it? Like some sort of therapy session or something? I don't need therapy, _Mycroft." _He spat his brother's name out like nothing more than a distasteful beverage. Then he shot Mycroft one more glare and shoved past him to leave the room. Mycroft was never more than two steps behind, though, and followed him into the living room, where Sherlock lay down on the sofa and Mycroft stood guard at the door.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths. "There's the door. It would be greatly appreciated by all residents of this flat if you would take a moment and use it for its intended purpose."

Mycroft swung the door shut. "Appreciate away."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over onto his side to face the wall. "You're the one who's supposed to be so good at reading people. Why don't you tell me what I'm feeling right now?"

Mycroft sat himself down in a chair – _John's chair_, Sherlock knew without even looking.

"Depression, because you've lost your closest and arguably only friend. Anger, because Moriarty is the one who killed him, someone you've been in competition with for some time. Guilt, because you led him into it and, when the time came, were unable to protect him as you believed you should have been able to. Shall I go on?"

"Get out," Sherlock growled.

Mycroft continued, a bit louder, this time. "Hopelessness, because you doubt you'll ever be able to find someone to replace him. Vengeful, because she killed him. Homicidal and powerful – unstoppable, even – because you have more than one reason for wanting her dead now."

Sherlock stormed over to the door and opened it with nearly enough force to pull it off its hinges. "I said GET OUT," he roared.

Mycroft held his hands up in the universal signal for surrender. "Call me when you're ready to talk."

The door slammed shut as soon as Mycroft was clear and Sherlock pulled the coffee table in front of it as an extra precaution against any more unwanted visitors. Then he walked over to John's chair, brushed it off, and adjusted the pillow before returning to the sofa.

He stared at the ceiling for some time, unable to sleep and unwilling to do anything else. In the past seven days, he'd consumed one cup of coffee and half a piece of toast from Mrs. Hudson, finished off a box of nicotine patches in a desperate attempt to numb his mind, slept for fifty three hours straight, ignored approximately one and a half dozen calls from concerned persons, and melted his computer in the oven (an "experiment").

He knew what he had to do. Kill her. Whatever it took, whatever was necessary, as long as she ended up dead. Problem was, he didn't know where she was. He certainly wasn't about to enlist the help of his brother. If he tried to get information from Lestrade, all he would hear was a nice little lecture on the moral and legal consequences of homicide.

It was another eighteen hours before he made up his mind. Eighteen hours of pacing, staring at nothing, pacing, thinking, looking at cells under a microscope, pacing, and cursing Moriarty. And pacing.

He was pacing at the end of those eighteen hours, twirling his phone in his hands. Desperate times did call for desperate measures. But, then, he didn't want to – couldn't afford to – seem weak, vulnerable. On the other hand, he didn't know how much longer he could bear to wait.

Impatience and vengeance won out. He looked at the text she had sent just an hour before killing John in cold blood, thought long and hard about whether or not he really wanted to do this, and then hit 'reply'.

_St. Bart's. Tomorrow, 5AM. Don't keep me waiting. -SH_


	16. The Fall

Sherlock was on the roof at half past four the next morning. (The hospital really needed to upgrade its security.) The sun was just barely starting to silhouette the eastern city skyline, as it does towards the end of summer. That was good. It would make a nice backdrop for the events that were about to unfold. He took his gun out of his jacket and checked it one more time. Loaded and ready to fire, just as it had been the last three times he'd checked it. Still, better safe than sorry. "Forgive me, Father, for I am about to sin," he muttered under his breath. Then he chuckled. Mummy had always been so religious, and so convinced that her boys would one day see things her way. (Had they? Who knew.)

She stepped onto the roof just as Big Ben chimed five o'clock. "Well, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turned his back on the city and stepped off the ledge that ran around the roof. "And they said punctuality was a lost cause in today's youth."

She crossed her arms and drummed her fingers on her elbow. "I have got somewhere to be in an hour. Don't waste my time."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

Neither of them said anything for a few moments; they just sized each other up and thought about the situation they both seemed to be in.

"Fine," she huffed. "I'll start. What did you call me here for? It had better be important."

He smiled. "You killed my friend."

"Sociopaths don't have friends," she countered.

"Then I'm not a sociopath," he fired back without missing a beat. He walked towards her and stopped an arm's length away. "Regardless, you killed him, and now I'm going to do the same to you. An act of revenge fueled by a burning vengeance, if you will."

"And if I kill you first?"

"Then you win. But you won't."

"So this is it. Endgame. One dies, the other walks away." Now it was her turn to smile. "Finally."

Sherlock, still holding his gun, started talking and used his hands a bit more than one should have felt comfortable with. "One thing, before I kill you." She raised an eyebrow. "How? Are you just one more in a long line of puppets, just one more fatality in his master plan? Or is it possible you're at the top of the food chain already, his right-hand man – sorry, woman?"

She started laughing – quietly, at first, and building gradually. "You really don't get it, do you? There is no 'he'. Only me." Sherlock lowered his hands and looked more confused than he had in a long time. "I **am **the top of the food chain. _I am Moriarty._ Not a puppet, not a right-hand man. _Moriarty._ And it only ever was me."

"No – you can't be – you're, what, seventeen?"

"Eighteen today, as a matter of fact."

"Oh, really? Happy birthday, then." He pocketed his gun again. "You were saying?"

"I. Am. Moriarty." She paused for dramatic effect, and just to rub it in, walked over to the edge of the roof and stood as if she were a king surveying his empire. "Was. Is. Will be."

Sherlock squinted against the sun, which continued to creep over the horizon. "Jim Moriarty - Jim from IT, Richard Brook. Where does he fit in, then? And Carl Powers. You couldn't possibly have been his murderer."

She held a hand up. "First of all, I've no idea who killed the swimmer. I just happened to be fortunate enough to find his shoes." She turned back towards him and let the sunlight silhouette her. "And Jimmy? He was my father. Well, my adoptive father. My real parents died in the Twin Towers attack. Nine-eleven. I had just turned four. My mum had dropped me off at pre-school, said she'd see me in a few hours, and never came back. My therapist said there was some resentment there."

Sherlock held up a hand to interrupt. "_You _have a _therapist_?"

"Had. Died in a car accident six months after our first meeting. Seems the brakes were cut."

"Tragic."

She nodded and went on with her story. "It's a long story, but the point is I had no family left and he adopted me a few months later. Before my sixth birthday, some rich relative of his died and he became a millionaire overnight. Hired a tutor instead of sending me to school. Went back to studies himself for computers and engineering."

"You wouldn't mind skipping ahead to the part where you become a first-class criminal mastermind, would you?"

She smirked. "Not at all." She stepped back towards Sherlock. "By the time I was eleven, I had finished my studies. I suppose that's just what happens when you're a homeschooled traumatized introvert. The tutor left. I started looking into things on my own. Logged an awful lot of hours at Oxford's libraries. Realized money and power could get a person anywhere – everywhere – in this world. And then I heard about you. Found your website. Decided to make you my goal. I was going to beat Sherlock Holmes.

"I started out small. Housebreaking. Pickpocketing. Then I moved on to blackmailing and manipulating people – much more satisfying, let me tell you. The cabbie from your first case with John – A Study in Pink, is that what he called it? Still. I got bored. At fourteen, I made my first kill. Haven't yet decided if this was a mistake or not, but I told Jim.

"And here's where it gets good. I blackmailed him into being my image – the public could neither believe nor fear a teenage girl, but a middle-aged man like him? You saw him yourself. And he had originally gone to school to be an actor, so it was nothing more than one more role with a bit more on the line than a bad review. He always said he hated it, but by the end of it – you were testifying against him at the trial, and I'm sure you saw something about his break-in to the Tower of London: it was fairly clear he was enjoying himself."

Sherlock's hand had moved to his gun. Something about her – everything about her was putting him off. "And, three years ago, you killed your own father."

She groaned. "Oh, he was never really my father. And I didn't kill him, Mr. Holmes. I gave him one order: make Sherlock jump. He could've found a way to close that loophole you found without dying, believe me. He just didn't want to. He was tired of all the acting, all the lying, all of it. And then he saw a way out. You remember, don't you? How he started getting all emotional towards the end. He even thanked you, and it seemed so sincere! Well, it was, I'm sure. Point is, he killed himself. I had nothing to do with that. After he died, though, I decided it was about time I came out from behind the curtain, so to speak." She had been walking around the roof the whole time she'd been talking, and came to stop right where Sherlock had been when she arrived, right where he'd jumped from three years back. "So I did," she finally went on. "And you've seen it all, Mr. Holmes. Everything I can do."

Sherlock scoffed. "You still failed. You said you wanted to beat Sherlock Holmes. Well? Have you? No. And you're not going to." He raised his gun. "It really is a shame to do this to you. Such a brilliant little girl. But that won't stop me, not this time."

He gave her a split-second to do something – play the ace that was up her sleeve, pull the last rabbit from her hat – but she didn't. So he fired. Blood seeped through her white dress, staining the shoulder a bright red. She looked down at the wound, then back at Sherlock, then back at the wound, as if she couldn't believe he'd actually had the guts to pull the trigger.

He kept the gun on her, moving it just a few degrees until the sight was on her heart. The human heart. So weak. So frail. So vulnerable. Emotionally. Physically. Psychologically. The universal Achilles' heel.

But he didn't get a chance to pull the trigger.

She looked back up at him. Then she shook her head, slowly, deliberately.

And then she stepped backwards.

Sherlock sprinted to the edge and looked down. It was over – not in the way he'd expected, but it was over. She was sprawled out on the pavement below, blood pooling around her body, eyes staring up at sky they would never see again. The few pedestrians out at that hour were beginning to gather. The police would be on the scene any minute, and Sherlock decided it was best he made himself scarce.

When he got back to the flat, Mrs. Hudson greeted him. "It's all over the news, Sherlock. A jumper at the hospital. You might be getting a case this week after all. That ought to cheer you right up."

He smiled at her, but didn't say anything, and continued up to his flat. He wasn't sure how he felt, wasn't even sure how he was supposed to feel. Relieved? Sorry? Satisfied? Happy?

He was just about to flick the news on to see how many mistakes they would make when reporting the story when he saw the envelope. Letter-sized, one of those official yellow ones, with a half-sheet of paper taped to the front. He ripped the sheet off without bothering to examine the envelope at all.

"Mr. Holmes," it read. "If you're reading this, then things didn't quite go the way I'd planned, and I'm dead. This envelope contains everything I could have ever used to ruin you. Don't worry. There aren't any more copies. Do with the contents what you will – burn them, shred them, paste them into a scrapbook.

"Before you start celebrating your victory, though, do me a favor. Just take a moment to think about everything that's happened between us these past several years. Ask yourself if you've really won. I may be a bit biased, but, from where I stand, I haven't lost. Food for thought.

"One last thing, if I may. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Really. It's been an honour, playing this little game with you. So thank you, and goodbye."

There was no signature, and the note was handwritten in an unfamiliar style, but its sender was no mystery.

He let the note flutter back to the table and leafed through the contents of the envelope. News articles, documented evidence to frame him for a murder or two, forged files showing how Moriarty had been an elaborate trick. He smiled, tucked the note into the envelope, and set it on the mantle next to his skull.

He knew what he had to do. He picked up the phone and made a quick call to Mycroft. Then he went back to the sofa and held his violin on his chest. It was finished, and for that he breathed a sigh of relief. But her final request… it still bothered him.

Had she won?


	17. Epilogue

It's a cold, dreary Tuesday. It's been raining for several hours - only what one would expect in the middle of April, though. People are hurrying back from work and school, anxious to get out of the rain and into their warm homes. Mrs. Hudson is baking in her flat. Mycroft is holding the whole of the world on his shoulders. Lestrade's finishing up some paperwork at the office. And our great detective? He's right where he's been every afternoon between the hours of one and three for the past eight months.

He's standing in front of a glossy black tombstone, not unlike the one he'd had made up for himself several years ago. But it isn't his name on the stone, and he isn't hiding or waiting for anything.

The headstone has just one word: Moriarty. He didn't know what else to call her after everything that had happened; he just knew that she would be cremated and honored properly in the cemetery – he's beginning to understand the purpose of the funeral and burial rituals. Closure, or something. So he stands in front of that grave, maybe thinking, maybe wishing, maybe regretting, for some time as the rain continues to fall.

"Still don't see why you did it," John says.

Sherlock doesn't move a muscle except to reply, "She deserved it."

"She hurt you."

"And that takes some doing. She earned it."

John sighs. "That's madness."

The detective shrugs. "I couldn't let her disappear into the world like everyone else. She couldn't turn into an anonymous statistic."

Sherlock doesn't count the seconds, but somehow it always ends up being exactly thirty minutes before he moves on. He makes his way across the cemetery, John beside him all the while. Eventually, he stops, and after a moment one realizes that he's right where his own grave had been. He looks up, and he's all alone – but what else could be expected? Because it's… He still has trouble processing the information, even after all this time.

He sits down with his back against the headstone, brings his knees to his chest, drops his head, and doesn't fight the tears that come.

Because it's John's grave.


End file.
